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GATHERED    LEAVES 

FROM    THE    PROSE    OF 
MARY    E.    COLERIDGE 

WITH     A     MEMOIR     BY 
EDITH    SICHEL 


'  Light  was  your  touch  upon  the  shadowy  earth ; 
You  loved  it  well,  yet  knew  it  little  worth  ; 
Each  mood  you  loved  that  changing  nature  brings, 
And  yet,  and  yet— you  loved  diviner  things.' 

Bernard  Holland. 


NEW    YORK 

E.    P.    DUTTON    &    CO. 

1910 


MARY'S    FRIENDS 
AND    MINE 


PREFATORY    NOTE 

I  SHOULD  like  to  acknowledge  with  gratitude  the  kindness 
of  the  Editors  of  the  CornhiU  Ma^'az'me  and  the  Times. 
and  that  of  Sir  Herbert  Stephen,  in  allowing  me  to 
repiint  contributions  (stories,  essays,  and  passages  from 
articles)  from  the  CornhilL  the  Literary  Supplement  of 
the  Times,  and  from  the  Rejfector,  which  is  now  out  of 
print.  In  the  case  of  other  extinct  periodicals  I  have 
done  my  best  to  get  permission  to  reproduce  contribu- 
tions, and,  in  the  cases  in  which  I  got  no  response,  I 
have  taken  for  granted  that  I  can  give  no  offence  by 
republication.  It  has  seemed  best  to  arrange  the 
contents  of  the  volinne  in  chronological  order,  for  the 
sake  of  those  who  like  to  follow  the  growth  of  the 
author's  mind  and  character. 

Edith  Sichkl, 

Fiib.  7th,  1910. 


CONTENTS 


MARY  COLERIDGE  .... 

STORIES— 

UNTER    DKN    LINDEN  .... 

THK    KING    IS    nEAn,    U»N(;    laVE    THE    KING 

THE    DEVIL    AT    THE    GUILDHALL 

THE    FRIENDLY    FOE 

THE    LADY    ON    THE    HILLSIDE 

THE    SNOW    IS    COMING 

THE    CITY    OF    BYBLOS 

THE    CONSCIENTIOUS    SECHKTAItV 

CATS    IN    COUNCIL     . 


PAGE 
1 


i7 
53 
G3 

79 
104 
120 
125 
140 
142 


ESSAYS- 


HER    GRACE,    THE    DUCHESS        . 

.       147 

ON    NOISES 

.       1(58 

SIORE    WORLDS    THAN    ONE 

.       173 

THE    MAKING    OF    HEROINES 

177 

travellers'    TALES            .... 

.       181 

MRS.    GASKELL 

186 

QUEEN    ELIZABETH                .... 

194 

THE    WILL    TO    DIE                .... 

.       211 

X 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

COLLECTlOxX  OF  PASSAGES  FROM   LETTERS  AND 

DIARIES 217 

UNPUBLISHED  POEMS- 

LINES 281 

GRIEF    AM)    DEATH 281 

TO    O.VE    WHO    WAS    NURSING    A    BLIND    FATHER                .              .  282 

TO 282 

TO    AN    OLD    FRIEND            .......  283 

TO    TIME    THE    COMFORTER           ......  283 

APPENDIX- 
NOTES    OF    THE    TABLE    TALK    OF    WILLIAM    CORY             .             .  287 
POEM  :     MARY    COLERIDGE            ......  337 


MARY   COLERIDGE 

For  most  people  there  is  a  beginning  and  an  end.  It  is 
important  to  recall  that  they  were  born,  and  that  they 
died  at  such  and  such  a  date.  But  to  say  of  Mary 
Coleridge  that  she  was  born  in  September  1861,  that  she 
lived  nearly  forty-six  years,  and  died  in  August  1907, 
means  little.  She  was  never  of  any  age,  and  excepting 
that  as  life  went  on  she  grew  and  ripened,  she  was 
much  the  same  at  twenty  as  at  forty.  She  seemed 
to  belong  to  eternity  rather  than  to  time,  and  the 
years  had  hardly  power  to  touch  her.  Her  nature  was 
woven  of  many  complex  threads,  seeming  to  cross  each 
other,  yet  forming  a  fine,  close  tissue.  She  was  all 
poet,  and  three-quarters  saint ;  she  was  holy,  without 
the  faintest  tinge  of  puritanism ;  she  was  merry, 
without  injury  to  her  holiness.  The  background 
of  her  spirit  was  pensive,  rather  shrinking,  often  sad  ; 
but  she  delighted  in  gaiety  and  generally  made  a 
gay  impression,  because  she  possessed  the  rare  gift  of 
being  in  love  with  the  moment,  and  was  easily  amused 
by  things  and  people.  Fantastic  she  was  to  excess,  and 
there  were  hours  when  she  let  her  fancies,  light  as  thistle- 


2  MARY  COLERIDGE 

down,  take  her  anywhere  so  long  as  she  need  not  tread 
on  solid  earth.  And  yet  she  could  be  shrewd  and  sober 
of  judgment  in  a  way  that  surprised  even  her  intimates. 

It  might  be  thought  that  such  opposite  elements 
would  have  given  either  a  broken,  or  a  bewildering  im- 
pression. But  that  was  not  so.  The  impression  left  by 
Mary  Coleridge  was  one  of  unity.  All  her  various, 
sometimes  paradoxical  qualities  were  covered,  linked 
together,  by  her  unique  force  of  loving.  It  lent  colour 
to  all  her  faculties  ;  it  caught  colour  from  them.  Her 
fancy  was  a  loving  fancy  ;  her  loves  were  often  fantastic. 
Rich  and  poor,  the  stupid  and  the  intellectual,  children 
and  old  people,  all  sorts  and  conditions,  had  they  been 
asked  what  she  was  like,  would  have  differed  on  many 
points,  but  in  this  they  would  have  been  agreed — that 
the  chief  feeling  conveyed  by  her  presence  was  the  sense 
of  this  power  of  love.  It  was  essentially  love  for  the 
individual.  Any  clashing  or  massing  she  rejected ;  it 
almost  irritated  her.  She  disliked  philanthropy,  she  said 
she  disliked  the  poor,  and  yet  there  were  many  poor 
women  who  counted  among  her  closest  friends.  In  the 
same  way,  respect  of  persons  offended  her ;  she  took 
every  one  solely  upon  his  merits.  Intellectual  scorn  was 
in  her  eyes  among  the  cardinal  sins,  and  she  was  more 
prone  to  invest  a  dull  acquaintance  with  romance  than  to 
seek  one  out  because  he  was  brilliant. 

As  she  was  always  the  same  from  childhood  onwards, 
it  has  seemed  needful — for  the  sake  of  those  who  did  not 
know  her — to  preface  any  pages  concerning  her  with 
some  attempt,  however  inadequate,  to   catch  a  fleeting 


MARY  COLERIDGE  3 

likeness  of  her  inner  nature.  For  her  life,  from  the  out- 
set, was  the  life  of  the  spirit,  her  adventures  (they  were 
many  and  romantic),  the  adventures  of  the  soul.  As  a 
child  she  was  delicate  and  shrinking,  the  prey  of  an 
almost  painful  sensitiveness.  It  was  only  her  love  for 
those  nearest  to  her  —  her  father,  her  mother,  her  one 
sister,  and  an  unmarried  aunt  who  lived  with  them — that 
could  dominate  her  diffidence.  Perhaps  this  timidity 
drove  her  the  more  quickly  into  that  world  which  was 
really  her  home,  the  world  of  the  imagination.  There 
she  was  always  bold,  even  daring,  and  no  one  knew  that 
the  fair-haired,  rather  pale-faced  little  girl  who  could 
hardly  come  into  a  room  without  suffering  was  far  away 
with  Harry  Hotspur,  or  dreaming  of  Sir  Gawain  and  Sir 
Lancelot,  or  sailing  with  Drake  to  El  Dorado. 

These  first  years  of  life  are  seldom  happy  ones  to  a 
highly-strung  child.  For  they  are  the  time  when  reason 
and  imagination — unprotected  imagination — run  parallel 
and  never  meet.  Reason  was  not  Mary  Coleridge's 
strong  point,  and  imagination  was,  so  she  suff'ered.  In 
after  times  she  never,  she  said,  'lived  over  again'  her 
childhood.  '  I  was,"  she  wrote,  '  such  a  numb,  unliving 
child,  that  all  that  period  of  my  life  is  vague  and 
twilight,  and  I  can  recall  scarcely  anything  except  the 
sharp  sensations  of  fear  that  broke  the  dull  dream  of  my 
days.  So  soon  as  I  began  to  awake  to  life,  my  childhood 
fell  away  from  me.''  Books  were  from  the  first  her  con- 
solation. Long  before  she  was  in  her  teens  she  began  to 
read  Shakespeare,  to  read  and  feel  him  with  a  poet's 
instinct.     Her  life  was  changed  from  that  moment.     She 


4  MARY  COLERIDGE 

learned  to  know  men  and  women  through  him  years 
before  she  knew  them  thi-ough  life.  Scott,  too,  enchanted 
the  days  of  her  early  girlhood.  She  was  one  of  the  lead- 
ing spirits  among  a  circle  of  eager  children,  who  met  to- 
gether every  Saturday  to  act  the  Waverley  novels.  Those 
vi^ho  saw  her  will  never  forget  her  in  the  part  of  Ivanhoe, 
tall,  pale,  lanky,  reed-like,  her  fair  hair  tucked  beneath  her 
helmet,  a  dish-cover  for  shield  in  her  hand,  swaying  as 
she  charged  the  Templar,  who,  robed  in  a  nightgown 
adorned  with  a  red  tape  cross,  parried  her  blows  with  the 
rest  of  the  dining-room  plate.  When  she  acted  she  lost 
her  shyness,  though  she  did  not  act  particularly  well. 
But  one  of  the  puzzling  inconsistencies  of  this  frail, 
secluded  being  was  that  she  was  always  dramatic  in  con- 
ception, and,  from  the  beginning,  loved  strong  effects  in 
literature  and  in  life — sometimes,  in  her  ardour  for 
romance,  even  mistaking  sensation  for  drama.  She  could, 
however,  only  act  a  hei'o  when  disguised.  And  when  she 
was  herself  again,  she  returned  to  the  region  familiar 
to  her,  a  pensive  place  of  silvei-y  tints  and  half-lights  and 
delicate  shadows,  rather  melancholy,  but  melancholy 
from  presentiment  more  than  from  experience.  A  little 
poem  that  she  made  when  she  was  thirteen  years  old 
might  almost  have  been  written  in  an  odd  moment  at 
any  time  of  her  existence.     It  is  called — 

A  BALLADE  OF  AUTUMN 

Life  is  passing  slowly. 

Death  is  drawing  near. 
Life  and  Death  are  holy, 

What  have  we  to  fear  ? 


MARY  COLERIDGE  5 

Faded  leaves  are  falling, 

Birds  are  on  the  wing. 
All  that  dies  in  Autumn 

Lives  again  in  Spring. 

The  quiet  and  distinction  of  her  gift  are  as  visible  here 
as  in  her  maturcr  work.  There  are  no  striking  images, 
no  youthfid  crudities.  Restraint  and  discretion  were  her 
heritage. 

What  was  perhaps  more  remarkable  than  her  imagina- 
tion— for  many  children  are  imaginative — was  her  quickly 
developed  power  of  scholarship.  When  she  was  about 
twelve,  the  shape  of  the  Hebrew  letters  attracted  her, 
and  she  begged  her  father  to  teach  her  the  language. 
By  the  time  she  was  nineteen  she  was  well  versed  in  it, 
as  well  as  in  German,  French,  Italian  ;  and  a  little  later 
she  became  a  keen  reader  of  Greek.  She  was  not  one  of 
those  literary  scholars  who  make  only  for  a  general 
impression,  for  colour  more  than  for  form.  She  was  the 
most  careful  of  students,  allowing  no  detail  to  be 
neglected,  accurate  and  reverentially  cautious,  with  a 
real  love  for  the  niceties  of  learning. 

In  this  path  a  great  influence  was  soon  brought  to  bear 
upon  her.  When  she  was  thirteen,  she  came  into  contact 
with  her  father's  friend,  William  Johnson,  better  known 
as  William  Cory,  the  author  of  lonica,  a  poet  and  scholar 
of  no  common  order.  The  Coleridges  were  spending  the 
summer  with  him  at  Halsdon,  near  Torrington,  in 
Devonshire ;  William  Cory  easily  detected  the  rare 
gifts  in  his  friend's  little  daughter,  and  ^s  easily 
knew   how   to   draw  them  out.     Mary's   shyness   melted 


6  MARY  COLERIDGE 

before  him,  and  there  were  morning  assignations  in  the 
garden,  before  breakfast,  while  the  birds  and  flowers  were 
their  sole  company.  To  the  end  she  loved  cyclamen  and 
irises,  because  they  were  favourites  of  his.  Soon  he 
became  her  guide  in  reading,  in  the  marshalling  of  know- 
ledge, and  tlius  it  was  that  she  formed  the  friendship 
which  perhaps  most  coloured  her  intellectual  life — the 
friendship  of  which  she  has  left  the  record  now  printed 
among  these  pages.  He  had  awakened  in  her  a  longing 
to  know,  which  spread  itself  out  in  all  directions. 

She  began  studying  for  herself,  she  steeped  herself  in 
poetry,  in  history.  She  was  always  an  ardent  partisan. 
A  contemporary  of  those  years  remembers  an  expedition 
with  her  and  some  other  girls  to  Westminster  Abbey  to 
see  the  waxen  figures  of  the  kings  and  queens  there. 
Historical  discussion  waxed  hot.  Mary  Coleridge  was 
full  of  Charles  i.  Impartiality  was  a  crime  in  her  eyes, 
and  there  was  no  more  loyal  hater  of  Cromwell  than  she 
was.  She  asked  her  comrade  on  which  side  she  stood. 
'  Neither,'  replied  the  stolid  philosopher  of  fifteen — '  I 
think  there  was  a  bit  of  truth  on  both  sides.""  '  And 
it  made  me  dislike  you  for  months,'  Mary  Coleridge  said 
thirty  years  afterwards. 

The  same  combatants  had  another  pitched  battle  over 
Shelley.  At  seventeen,  Mary  could  not  endure  him — at 
twenty-seven,  she  adored  him.  In  these  earlier  days 
her  friend  was  his  votary  and  talked  of  nothing  but 
Prometheus  Unbound  \  but  Mary's  tender  conscience 
was  offended  by  his  lawlessness,  her  -taste  bewildered  by 
his  dizzy  raptures.     Ten  years  later,  the  two  had  changed 


MARY  COLERIDGE  7 

parts ;  the  friend  indicted  hini  for  selfish  idealism — Mary 
defended  him  on  the  plea  of  his  goodness  to  his  kind. 

In  those  younger  years,  she  not  only  felt,  she  began 
to  think.  There  are  three  little  summaries  of  different 
philosophies  written  by  her  at  sixteen,  which  show  a 
grasp  of  mind  not  common  so  early  in  life.  Two  of 
them  handle  Berkeley  and  Locke ;  the  third,  concerning 
Descartes,  is  worth  giving. 

'  Cartesian  Credo 
*  I  believe  that  it  is  possible  to  doubt  of  everything ; 
because  the  evidence  of  our  senses  often  deceives  us  (as 
in  sleep,  sickness,  etc.),  but  this  doubt  of  my  own  is  the 
only  thing  I  find  doubtless,  therefore  I  conclude  that  I 
am  a  thinking  being  and  that  because  I  think  I  exist 
(to  doubt  being  the  same  as  to  think).  I  believe  in  the 
immateriality  of  my  soul,  because  I  find  that  neither 
place  nor  any  other  idea  of  matter  is  essential  to  the 
thinking  part  of  me ;  and  I  believe  in  God,  firstly,  because 
I  find  in  this  thinking  part  of  me  a  very  strong  and 
perfect  conception  of  my  Creator ;  and  secondly,  because 
it  is  impossible  that  something  should  be  produced  out 
of  nothing,  and  I  have  already  found  that  I  am  a 
thinking  being,  therefore  that  I  am  something.  I 
believe  also  that  God  is  good,  because  I  find  in  myself 
inclinations  to  goodness,  and  happiness  in  it,  which  no 
evil  could  have  produced,  and  I  believe  material  things 
are  really  so,  because  if  God  is  good  it  is  at  least 
highly  improbable  that  He  would  continually  deceive 
me,  even  for  my  good.     I  also  conclude  that  it  is  wrong 


8  MARY  COLERIDGE 

to  attempt  to  define  things  which  can  be  far  more  clearly 
conceived ;  to  these  belong  doubt,  thought,  and  existence. 
'May  6th,  1878.' 

It  was  no  wonder  that  all  her  teachers  adored  her, 
and,  long  after  school-days,  remembered  the  essays  that 
she  wrote  for  them.  Among  those  she  cared  most  for 
was  Professor  Hales,  who  lectured  on  English  Literature 
at  King's  College  for  Women.  He  it  was  who  first  set 
her  feet  in  the  fields  of  Elizabethan  drama,  and  sent  her 
to  pasture  on  the  brown  folios  in  the  libraries  of  the 
South  Kensington  Museum.  To  him  she  owed  many 
golden  hours,  absorbed  in  Ford  and  Webster  and 
Massinger.  By  herself  now,  also,  she  plunged  into 
Homer  and  Euripides.  But  here  she  was  not  long  left 
alone.  When  she  was  three  and  twenty,  her  old  friend, 
William  Cory,  became  her  master.  With  him,  and  with 
some  chosen  companions,  she  read  Plato  and  Theocritus, 
read,  and  learned  with  Greek  many  other  things  which 
she  herself  has  chronicled,  such  things  as  left  an  indelible 
impression  on  her  mind. 

'  I  should  have  been  well  content  to  read  all  my  life 
long,'  she  wrote  of  this  time  in  a  later  diary — 'With 
such  an  appetite  did  I  set  out  that  all  books  resolved 
themselves  for  me  into  one  huge  volume,  and  although 
blindly  conscious  even  then  that  I  should  never  live  to 
finish  it,  I  was  wild  to  begin  it,  not  as  wise  people  do, 
here  and  there,  but  everywhere  that  every  one  had  begun 
it  before  me.  The  fruits  of  the  tree  -of  Knowledge  are 
various ;  he  must  be  strong  indeed   who  can  digest  all 


MARY  COLERIDGE  9 

of  them.  I  was  vainly  endeavouring  to  get  my  teeth 
through  the  sour  apple  of  science,  to  crack  the  hard  nuts 
of  philosophy,  when  all  that  I  was  really  fit  for  was  to 
gather  up  the  stray  blossoms  that  fell  in  spring."  .  .  . 

But  the  sour  apple  had  its  uses.  The  desire  for  know- 
ledge gradually  built  up  a  solid  screen  between  her  and 
her  fears.  The  distresses  of  childhood  had  passed  away, 
and  youth  had  begun.  Between  fifteen  and  twenty-five 
she  enjoyed  many  things,  although  her  dread  of  society 
continued. 

'  You  would  study  life  to  some  purpose  among  all 
these  folks,"'  she  wrote  from  Homburg  in  these  early 
days  to  a  friend ;  '  but  things  interest  me  more  than 
people  .  .  .  and  as  I  no  more  understand  life  than  I 
understand  arithmetic  (indeed  it  often  seems  to  me 
very  much  like  twice  one  is  two,  which  no  one  has  ever 
yet  made  clear  to  me)  I  run  away  from  it  to  the  old 
deserted  Schloss,  with  its  carved  yew-trees  and  stiff- 
backed  dahlias  and  sunflowers,  and  background  of  soft 
blue  hills  and  firs  and  chestnuts.  To-night  there  was 
a  glorious  sunset  there,  and  it  reminded  me  of  what 
you  said  about  Nature's  gradual  changes.  Quite  true — 
except  as  to  the  moon,  and  goodness  gracious,  can't  she 
startle  one  every  now  and  then,  and  gleam  at  one  out 
of  boughs  in  a  white  passion  of  rage,  just  when  one 
least  expects  it !  I  don't  feel  sure  of  the  sun,  but  there 
is  not  the  faintest  doubt  that  that  moon  was  once  a 
woman,  she  is  the  most  human  thing  in  creation.  .  .  . 
Haven't  you  sometimes  felt  inclined  to  run  away  anywhere 
out    of    reach    of    those    dreadful    eyes,    with    all    the 


10  MARY  COLERIDGE 

expression  frozen  out  of  them  ?  Somebody  treated  her 
very  badly,  depend  upon  it.' 

There  is  so  much  of  Mary  Coleridge's  youth  in  this 
extract  that  it  tells  more  about  her  than  any  description, 
and  so  do  the  passages  that  follow : 

'After  all,  what  do  I  know  of  the  world?  Beyond 
the  fact  that  I  have  lived  in  it  twenty-six  years — nothing. 
I  have  not  even  learnt  its  alphabet.  Thirteen  years  at 
least  out  of  the  twenty-six  have  I  lived  in  books,  and 
yet  I  understand  them  not  much  better.  Dorothea's 
marriage  with  Ladislaw  is  as  great  a  mystery  to  me  as 
the  existence  of  capital  punishment.  I  have  not 
imagination  enough  to  understand  fact,  nor  experience 
enough  to  comprehend  fiction.  Certain  moments  in  my 
own  life  or  that  of  others  stand  out  clearly  like  mountain 
tops  that  have  caught  the  sunrise,  while  the  valley  below 
is  still  in  darkness.' 

'L.  is  here  .  .  .  but  she  wears  such  beautiful  white 
frocks,  and  they  fit  her  so  exquisitely,  that  I  feel  rather 
afraid  of  her  when  we  meet  before  the  Cursaal,  and  read 
my  Jowett's  Plato  (vol.  i.)  in  a  humble  background, 
for  fear  she  should  find  it  out  (which  she  did  the  very 
first  night).' 

'  It 's  rather  funny  that  you  and  Ella  and  I  should 
all  be  at  "  the  Republic "  at  the  same  time ;  E.  wrote 
ecstatically  about  it  the  other  day,  and  she  isn't  much 
given  to  ecstasies  by  letter.  Its  •extraordinary  modern- 
ness  strikes  me,  just  as  it  does  you.     Even  Homer  and 


MARY  COLERIDGE  11 

Shakespeare,  who  are  equally  "  not  of  an  age,  but  for 
all  time"  with  Plato,  seem  to  speak  from  a  distance, 
but  one  can  hardly  persuade  oneself  that  Socrates  is 
not  in  the  next  room.  And  no  one  but  Plato  gives 
one  in  perfection  that  absolutely  delightful  sensation 
of  laughing  not  from  amusement,  but  from  sheer  happi- 
ness, just  as  a  child  laughs,  because  it's  alive  and  the 
sun  shines.  I  wonder  if  all  laughing  began  so?  I 
suppose  it  did.  Primitive  man  didn't  understand  a 
joke,  very  likely."' 

'  When  I  am  reading,  Conscience  comes  and  says,  "  You 
know  you  ought  to  be  writing.  What  business  have  you 
to  enjoy,  when  you  have  never  worked  ?  What  work  but 
this  can  you  do  ?  "  When  I  am  talking,  ditto.  When  I  am 
dreaming,  just  the  same.  The  book  I  mean  to  write  is 
sometimes  big  and  sometimes  little.  The  only  remarkable 
thing  about  it  is  that  it  never  will  identify  itself  with 
the  book  I  am  actually  writing  at  the  moment.' 

Somebody  said  of  Mary  Coleridge  that  she  was  '  like 
the  tail  of  the  comet  S.T.C"  'I  have  no  fairy  god- 
mother,' she  once  wrote,  '  but  lay  claim  to  a  fairy  great- 
great-uncle,  which  is  perhaps  the  reason  that  I  am 
condemned  to  wander  restlessly  around  the  Gates  of 
Fairyland,  although  I  have  never  yet  passed  them.' 
All  the  same,  she  was  well  within  the  magic  fence, 
and  the  likeness  to  her  great-uncle  is  no  imaginary  one. 
It  comes  out,  perhaps,  most  in  a  certain  weird  quality 
of  her  imagination — in  the  love  for  the  strange  and  the 
unearthly — which  haunted  her  from  childhood  onwards. 


12  MARY  COLERIDGE 

'  Have  you  ever  read  Ye  legend  of  ye  Mandrake  ?  I 
hit  on  it  the  other  day,  and  it  pleased  me  mightily.  If 
you  want  to  uproot  a  mandrake — why  you  ever  should 
want  to  uproot  it  does  not  appear — you  must  go  to  the 
place  where  its  grows,  very  early  on  a  Friday  morning, 
taking  with  you  a  black  dog  and  having  your  ears  care- 
fully stopped  with  cotton  wool,  so  that  you  cannot  hear 
its  deathly  shriek  during  the  operation.  Then  you  must 
dig  all  round  it  in  a  square ;  then  you  must  take  a  piece 
of  string  and  fasten  one  end  to  the  mandrake  and  the 
other  end  to  the  black  dog's  tail ;  then  you  must  run  for 
your  life,  and  the  black  dog  will  run  after  you,  dragging 
the  mandrake  up  along  with  it.  It  goes  without  saying 
that  the  black  dog  dies  of  the  shrieks,  but  that  doesn't 
matter.' 

Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  might  have  talked  en- 
thusiastically of  the  mandrake  on  some  moonlight  even- 
ing at  Alfoxden — more  seriously  than  their  follower,  as  a 
possible  subject  for  a  poem,  and  with  Coleridge  half 
believing  all  the  time.  His  great-niece's  love  of  wizardry 
remained  ;  it  took  shape  in  her  poems  years  after :  in 
'  Master  and  Guest,'  and  in  '  The  Witch,'  and 
'  Wilderspin.' 

Nearly  all  her  early  stories  are  coloured  by  this  taste, 
and  these  stories  are  many.  They  were  written  any- 
where and  anyhow — chiefly  on  the  backs  of  old  copy- 
books, for  economy's  sake.  Imagination  was  plentiful  in 
those  days  and  pocket-money  was  scarce.  Rut  her  real 
ambition  at  this  date  was  not  to'  be  a  writer,  but  a 
painter,  and  she  worked  pretty  hard  at  drawing.     Her 


MARY  COLERIDGE  13 

delicate,  accurate  water-colour  sketches  remain  to  record 
her  talent.  Like  all  else,  they  are  the  expression  of  her- 
self, more  real  in  this  way  than  as  works  of  art.  But  no 
one  who  saw  pictures  with  her  could  doubt  that  an  artist 
was  looking,  with  an  artisfs  power  of  enjoyment.  All 
her  life  she  had  a  passion  for  painting  and  for  talking  it 
over.  Yet  it  was  not  her  true  medium  ;  literature  was, 
and  she  found  it  out. 

She  lived  at  the  hour  that  suited  her.  '  Bliss  was  it  in 
that  dawTi  to  be  alive,  but  to  be  young  was  very  heaven.' 
Perhaps  most  people  could  say  that  of  their  youth,  but 
for  her  it  was  peculiarly  true.  The  late  seventies  and 
early  eighties  were  a  generous  time  for  the  young. 
Smart  criticism  and  epigrammatic  humour  had  not  yet 
come  into  fashion ;  hero-worship  was  the  virtue  in  vogue, 
and  there  still  were  gods  to  worship.  It  was  the  day  of 
the  power  of  Browning  and  Tennyson,  of  Carlyle  and 
Ruskin  and  George  Eliot.  Big  ideas  were  moving,  fit 
to  kindle  the  spirit  of  youth.  The  once  derided  Pre- 
Raphaelites  had  become  a  recognised  influence.  Watts 
was  a  reigning  force  in  art.  William  Morris  was  inspir- 
ing social  reforms — a  poet's  attractive  reforms.  Furniture, 
wall-papers,  even  dress  became  part  of  the  general 
ferment.  Toynbee  Hall  was  a  new  venture,  and  the  idea 
that  science  was  poetic,  and  that  natural  law  was  recon- 
cileable  with  supernatural  power  was  not  as  yet  the  axiom 
of  many  pulpits.  The  rising  generation  of  those  days 
was  too  busy  entering  doors  to  stop  and  knock  at  them. 
Its  children  may  have  been  extravagant,  but  they  gave 
themselves,  and  had  no  morbid  fear  of  being  absurd. 


14  MARY  COLERIDGE 

Into  all  this  life  and  movement  Mary  Coleridge  threw 
herself.  She  did  so  in  the  company  of  congenial  com- 
rades. They  all  acknowledged  the  same  gods,  and  yet 
their  discussions  were  endless. 

Foremost  in  their  talk  came  the  name  of  Robert 
Browning.  The  rest  envied  Mary,  because  he  went 
to  her  parents'  house,  although  she  was  too  shy  to 
speak  to  him.  To  the  end  he  was  the  poet  who  came 
first  with  her.  Not  that  she  excluded  Tennyson,  whose 
beauty  she  felt  to  the  full — felt  and  worshipped.  But 
Browning  was  an  influence  in  her  life  ;  his  conceptions  of 
love  and  death,  of  faith  and  unfaith,  his  conviction  that 
to  miss  good  was  worse  than  to  do  evil,  all  this  expressed 
for  her  her  inmost  beliefs.  Her  notes,  delicately  written 
on  the  margin  of  the  volume,  make  an  excellent  com- 
mentary on  Sordello ;  and  in  her  copy  of  Pauline  she 
has  given  at  the  sides  of  the  pages  every  different 
version  of  the  lines,  collected  with  infinite  trouble  in  the 
Library  of  the  British  Museum.  Paracelsus^  the  Drama- 
tic Lyrics,  Men  and  Women,  the  plays,  she  knew  from 
cover  to  cover.     They  warmed  her  with  their  fire. 

And  then  there  were  the  Pre-Raphaelites.  Mary  was 
always  their  fervent  votary.  When  the  Fine  Arts  first 
exhibited  Mr.  Graham's  collection  of  Rossettis,  her 
excitement  was  intense.  Four  of  that  little  band  of 
girls  still  remember  the  stories  they  wrote  in  competi- 
tion upon  the  picture,  '  How  they  met  Themselves,'  and 
how  Mary's  eerie  tale  held  them  spell-bound.  They 
remember,  too,  how  at  other  seasons  it  was  the  stage 
that    filled    their   minds — and    for   them    the   stage    of 


MARY  COLERIDGE  15 

those  years  meant  the  Lyceum,  meant  Irving  and  Ellen 
Terry. 

This  was  no  bad  thing  for  a  Shakespeare  scholar  like 
Mary,  and  the  papers  she  wrote  then  upon  the  drama 
show  that  her  powers  of  criticism  became  quickened. 
They  were  among  the  first  things  she  published,  and 
came  out  under  a  noni  de  plume,  in  a  magazine  called 
The  Theatre. 

Her  days  were  full.  Friendship  and  literature  made 
her  happy,  friendship  at  this  moment,  in  particular,  for 
others  of  her  companions  pursued  art,  and  one  of  them 
had  also  begun  to  write.  To  Mary,  her  friends'  doings 
were  a  romance ;  no  one  believed  in  them  as  she  did.  In 
them  she  lived  vicariously.  Through  them  she  gained 
experience,  and  she  enlarged  it  by  her  own  imagination. 
Thus  existence  was  idealised  for  her,  although  it  was  not 
always  serene.  Like  other  poets,  slie  continued  to  have 
many  moods.  The  sense  of  beauty  which  gave  her  so 
much  joy  on  good  days,  was  her  torment  on  bad  ones. 

'  It 's  a  dreary  day,'  she  wrote  from  Broadstairs,  '  and 
I'm  self-discontented.  When  F.  is  self-discontented,  she 
thinks  of  Charlotte  Bronte,  and  says  sternly  to  herself, 
"  You  fool ! "  But  I  don't  derive  much  satisfaction  from 
that  form  of  rebuke.  The  sea  is  no  colour,  the  sky  is  no 
colour,  the  houses  are  uglier  than  no  colour.  I  have 
reduced  all  my  possible  courses  of  action  in  the  future 
to  four,  and  whichever  I  elect  to  follow,  I  am  quite  sure 
that  the  three  others  immediately  seem  to  be  preferable. 
What  a  mockery  is  Free  Will  under  such  circumstances  ! 
I  declare  I  very  nearly  wish  I  had  a  governess.'  .  .  , 


16  MARY  COLERIDGE 

And  yet  if  that  day  a  gleam  had  shone  upon  the 
waters,  or  if  she  could  have  found  a  green  field  to  sit  in, 
her  mood  would  have  changed.  She  was  as  changeful  as 
the  sea  she  so  adored.  No  one  was  more  affected  by 
Nature,  The  wind  lashed  her,  the  sunset  calmed  her,  the 
snow  excited  her,  to  the  hills  she  looked  for  help.  She 
did  not  wish  to  '  receive  but  what  she  gave  ' ;  she  liked 
Nature  to  be  a  power  outside  her,  infusing  into  her  the 
joy,  the  peace,  that  she  did  not  always  possess.  She 
never  felt  that  power  more  than  in  Northumberland. 
Northumberland  haunted  her  :  she  loved  its  stern  moods, 
its  summer  richness,  its  Border  sights,  its  strong  romance. 
In  the  house  of  her  dear  Quaker  friends,  the  Hodgkins, 
where  she  stayed  every  year  from  this  time  forwards,  she 
learned  her  Northumberland  in  the  best  way.  For  Dr. 
Hodgkin,  the  historian,  was  her  guide,  and  he  made  even 
wayside  stones  alive  with  old  story.  The  sea-girt  castle 
of  Bamborough,  so.  long  the  Hodgkins'  home,  seemed 
made  for  her.  She  delighted  to  sleep  in  her  turret 
chamber  there,  or  to  pass,  as  she  once  did,  a  memorable 
night  on  its  tower,  watching  the  moon  set  and  the  sun 
rise  over  the  wide  sea.  She  had  other  Northumbrian 
friends,  to  whom  she  paid  yearly  visits.  Those  to  the 
family  of  Sir  Andrew  Noble  provided  her  with  some  of 
her  best  memories,  most  of  all  when  they  lived  at  Chill- 
ingham,  another  home  of  her  dreams. 

Strike,  Life,  a  happy  hour,  and  let  me  live 

But  in  that  grace  !  ^ 
I  shall  have  gathered  all  the  world  can  give. 

Unending  Time  and  Space. 


MARY  COLERIDGE  17 

Bright  light  and  air — the  thin  and  shining  air 

Of  the  North  land. 
The  light  that  falls  on  tower  and  garden  there, 

Close  to  the  gold  sea-sand. 

So  begins  the  second  of  the  three  poems  that  she  called 
'Chillingham."' 

But  her  visits  there  were  in  later  years. 

She  was  only  twenty-two  when  sorrow  came  to  her. 
The  aunt  died  who  shared  her  home,  who  had  been 
her  friend  and  her  counsellor.  And  the  first  contact  with 
death — the  first  shock  to  the  permanence  of  things — is 
like  none  other.  It  was  bound  to  change  her  sensitive 
being,  to  alter  her  outlook.  And  it  did  so  in  a  strange 
way.  To  most  young  people  Death  comes  as  the  King  of 
shadows.  To  her,  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  Death  intensi- 
fied reality — it  made  life  more  concrete,  even  while  it 
made  it  more  painful.  And  the  next  few  years  were 
filled  with  family  troubles  which  left  their  mark  upon  her 
spirit.  They  were  years  that  went  to  the  making  of 
many  of  her  poems. 

Not  long  after  this,  Mary  Coleridge  first  read 
Tolstoy,  and  there  began  for  her  a  struggle  which 
lasted  her  lifetime.  It  concerned  her  attitude  towards 
the  poor,  which  was  like  that  of  no  one  else.  She 
was  not  born  to  work  among  them.  There  was  no 
touch  of  Dinah  Morris  about  her,  still  less  of  the 
organised  worker.  But  the  thought  of  the  poor  seldom 
left  her.  She  was  penetrated  by  the  Christian  ideal,  the 
conception  of  true  equality,  born  of  love.  It  was  part  of 
her  deepest  being;  it  was  part  of  her  familv  heritage. 


18  MARY  COLERIDGE 

Most  believers  in  Ciiristian  ideals  are  over-apt  to  substi- 
tute a  kind  of  tender  patronage  for  the  brotherhood  once 
preached  in  Judaea.     Mary  Coleridge,  more  humble  and 
more  candid,  saw  things  in  a  different  light.     She  took 
for  granted  that  men  should  stand  on  one  spiritual  level ; 
that  the  existence  of  a  soul,  alike  in  beggar,  philosopher, 
and  king,  was  the  brevet  of  equality  appointed  by  the 
King  of  kings  to  carry  an  authority  annulling  all  distinc- 
tions.    Without  this  equality  in  notions  of  truth   and 
honour,  she  found  real  intercourse  impossible.     Philan- 
thropic institutions,  however  splendid,  left  her  cold  and 
uninterested.      They   allowed   no  room   for  the  play  of 
personality,   without  which    she    felt   depressed   and  in- 
effectual.    When  she  began  to  work  among  the  poor,  it 
was  this  kind  of  friendship  she  was  seeking.     It  was  long 
before    she  gave  up  the   search.       Here  and  there    she 
found  exceptions ;  but  she  was  duped  and  disappointed 
times  out  of  number,  and  each   time   seemed  to  her  a 
mere  accident.     And  it  was  a  profound  disappointment 
when  at  last  it  dawned  upon  her  that  her  hope  could  not 
be  realised — that  the  obstacle  to  true  equality  lay,  not 
only  in  the  rich,  but  in  the  poor  themselves.     She  saw 
things   as    they    were,   unblinded    by   the    philanthropic 
exaltation  which  idealises  sin  and  suffering  ;  unconsoled 
by  the  formulae  with  which  modern  science  explains  away 
evil.     Ugliness  and  coarseness  repelled  her ;   she  shrank 
from  the  contact  of  vice.     It  was  not  that  she  did  not 
see    the  virtues    of  poverty;    she    could    be   profoundly 
moved   by    the    meekness,   and   the    kindness,    and    the 
courage  that  she  sometimes   witnessed — by  '  the  quiet. 


MARY  COLERIDGE  19 

unconscious  majesty  of  their  endurance,"'  to  use  words  of 
her  own.  But  she  had  learnt  her  lesson.  The  poor,  she 
now  felt,  could  not  be  her  brothers  as  she  meant  them 
to  be. 

We  are  uot  near  enough  to  love^ 

I  can  but  pity  all  your  woe  ; 
For  wealth  has  lifted  me  above, 

And  falsehood  set  you  down  below. 

If  you  were  true,  we  still  might  be 

Brothers  in  something  more  than  name  ; 

And  were  I  poor,  your  love  to  me 

Would  make  our  differing  bonds  the  same. 

Love  never  comes  but  at  love's  call. 

And  pity  asks  for  him  in  vain  ; 
Because  I  cannot  give  you  all, 

You  give  me  nothing  back  again. 

And  you  are  right  with  all  your  wrong. 

For  less  than  all  is  nothing  too  ; 
May  Heaven  beggar  me  ere  long, 

And  Truth  reveal  herself  to  you. 

So  she  wrote  later  in  life.  The  gulf  was  always  there 
for  her,  but  she  believed  that  others  than  herself  might 
bridge  it  over.  It  was  Tolstoy,  the  Tolstoy  of  the 
Parables,  who,  in  these  older  days,  taught  her  how,  and 
made  her  see  with  his  eyes.  He  showed  lier  that  wrong 
would  never  grow  right  till  we  practised  the  gospel 
precepts  literally,  and  began  to  try  and  lead  the  divine 
life  of  love  for  all.  It  was  the  idea  of  larger  love  which 
attracted  her,  for  love  was  the  one  authority  she  always 
acknowledged  as  supreme.  Duty  forbade  her  to  leave 
home,  so  that  the  problems  of  living  among  the  poor 


20  MARY  COLERIDGE 

were  spared  her.  But  for  a  long  time  she  doubted 
whether  she  ought  to  write,  instead  of  giving  her  time 
to  working  in  some  more  active  way  for  her  kind — 
doubted  and  suffered  in  the  process.  Then  she  decided 
it  in  her  own  way. 

'  Tolstoy  is  a  short  cut,  and  I  don't  like  short  cuts  to 
goodness,'  said  a  friend  in  discussing  the  matter.  '  That 
is  not  what  keeps  me,"*  answered  Mary ;  '  I  feel  that 
Tolstoy  is  right,  but  that  very  few  people  are  strong 
enough  to  lead  the  perfect  life ;  I  know  that  /  am  too 
weak,  I  could  not  live  like  that.  But  it  is  my  own  weak- 
ness which  holds  me  ;  it  is  no  fault  of  Tolstoy's."* 

This  '  call '  to  a  wider  Christianity  was  the  only  kind 
of  '  call '  that  really  appealed  to  her.  For  '  vocations,' 
cloistral  or  otherwise,  that  meant  separation  from  human 
affection,  she  felt  a  kind  of  dismayed  respect,  but  she  did 
not  understand  them.     She  often  thought  them  wrong. 

'  It  grieves  me  very  much  to  feel  that  you  feel  that  you 
are  taking  a  lower  path  in  coming  back.  Our  Lord  did 
not  tell  every  one  to  go  and  evangelise.  He  did  not  tell 
Lazarus  to,  for  instance,  nor  any  of  that  family ;  nor 
does  He  seem  to  have  made  it  the  theme  of  many  of  his 
discourses,  except  to  the  disciples.  It  will  seem  to  me 
that  He  wants  us  to  do  what  He  gave  us  the  power  to 
do — not  things  that  are  against  nature.  I  know  you 
think  that  nature  ought  not  to  count — that  faith  should 
be  everything — and  that  everything  can  be  done  by 
faith.  And  I  see  this  side  of  it  also.  So  that  I  feel 
most  deeply  for  you  about  it.  Oiily  I  think  Love  is  a 
safe  guide,  and  that,  God  being  Love,  we  may  always 


MARY  COLERIDGE  21 

yield  to  love  without  going  wrong.  It  seems  to  me 
that  you  are  yielding  to  love.' 

Thus  she  wrote  to  one  she  cared  for,  who  wished  to  be 
a  missionary,  but  was  prevented.  The  words  represented 
her  creed.  Later,  she  went  further  towards  a  solution. 
She  always  showed  a  genius  for  teaching,  had  from 
earliest  days  taught  needy  pupils ;  and  now  she  found  in 
this  pursuit  a  means  of  sincere  intercourse  with  those 
below  her.  She  sought  out  the  working-girls  who  wished 
to  learn,  and  their  wish  created  an  equality.  For  years 
she  had  a  class  at  home ;  from  1895  onwards  she  taught 
at  the  Working  Women's  College.  Of  her  lessons  and 
her  influence  in  that  place  there  will  be  cause  to  speak 
hereafter. 

The  disregard  of  her  literary  work,  compared  with  any 
kind  of  service  to  her  fellows,  only  increased  a  natural 
inclination.  She  could  not  take  her  writing  seriously. 
She  was  too  humorous  and  too  humble  to  do  so.  '  I 
shall  always  go  on  writing,  because  it  amuses  me  so,'  was 
the  conclusion  of  her  moral  questionings,  when  debating 
her  right  to  make  books  at  all.  She  would  write  in  odd 
corners,  in  odd  postures,  at  odd  moments — anyhow,  so  as 
to  escape  detection.  She  would  allow  every  one  to 
interrupt  her.  Any  bore  in  human  form  who  made  a 
claim  upon  her  seemed  to  her  more  important  than  what 
she  was  about.  Indeed,  to  those  who  knew  that  her  art 
would  have  profited  by  more  respectful  treatment,  her 
self-neglect  was  often  provoking.  And,  apart  from  this, 
Nature  had  handicapped  her  in  her  character  of  author. 
She  suffered  from  a  constitutional  secretiveness  about  her 


22  MARY  COLERIDGE 

work  wl)ich  made  her,  the  most  truthful  of  beings,  have 
recourse  to  innocent  fibs,  to  any  subterfuge,  rather  than 
reveal  what  she  was  writing — even  to  those  who  were 
nearest  to  her.  Coleridge,  we  are  told,  used  suddenly  to 
hide  himself  in  London  for  weeks  together  from  his 
family.  His  great-niece  had  the  same  need  for  conceal- 
ment. A  question  about  her  books  would  make  her 
miserable — in  early  days  to  the  point  of  tears.  And 
although  success  helped  her  to  be  less  nervous,  it  did  not 
do  away  with  this  strange  habit.  To  the  last  she  dis- 
liked allusion  to  her  books,  and  could  hardly  answer 
questions  about  them.  This  was  in  personal  intercourse. 
As  soon  as  she  was  alone  with  pen  and  paper,  and  could 
not  see  the  person  she  was  addressing,  she  did  not  much 
mind  what  she  said.  She  was  capable  of  the  most 
surprising  boldness  by  letter,  and  of  nonplussing  self- 
betrayals  to  the  public.  She  could  even  write  to  authors 
unknown  to  her  such  praises  as  would  have  killed  her  to 
pronounce.  They  were,  so  to  speak,  confidences  to  the 
pillar-post,  and  once  they  were  in  that  receptacle,  she  did 
not  care. 

Self-confidence,  however,  grew  with  success,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  success  came.  But  it  did  not  follow  upon 
her  first  published  novel.  The  Seven  Sleepers  of  Ephesus, 
which  appeared  in  1893.  The  book,  a  reckless  fantasia, 
the  record  of  seven  young  men"'s  adventures,  was  too  wild 
an  attempt  to  take  with  the  public,  and  was  more  or  less 
of  a  failure — a  failure  crowned  by  one  laurel,  the  praise 
of  Stevenson.  And  the  laurel  remained  green  when  the 
failure  had  faded  from  her  memory.    She  printed  nothing 


MARY  COLERIDGE  23 

again   until   1896.     In    1895,  the  poet,  Robert  Bridges, 
was  staying  in  the  house  of  a  relation  who  was  also  a 
friend  of  Mary   Coleridge.      He  happened   to    pick  up 
from  the  table  a  little  volume  of  manuscript  verse  that 
was  lying  there,  to  glance  at  it,  to  find  himself  arrested. 
The  poems,  he  said,  must  see  the  light ;  he  wanted  to 
know  who  had  written  them.     This  was  his  introduction 
to   their  author,  the    beginning  of  a   friendship   which 
became  one  of  the  chief  refreshments  of  her  life.     And 
her  visits  to  him  and  his  family,  at  Yattenden  first,  then 
near  Oxford,  were  among  the  events  she  loved  to  dwell 
upon.     She  was  an    ardent   admirer   of  Bridges''  work ; 
she  could  hardly  believe  that  he  cared  for  anything  of 
hers.     Perhaps  he  alone  could  have  persuaded  this  hider 
of  her  talents  to  give  her  poems,  the  record  of  years,  in 
any  form  to  the  public.     He  did  so,  and  they  proceeded 
to  enjoy  much  intercourse  over  the  manuscript.     From 
him  she  received  criticism  and  technical  training  such  as 
she  had  not  had  before,  and  the  result  was  the  slender 
grey     paper    book,    Fancy's    Following,    by    '  Anodos,' 
printed  by  the  Daniel  Press,  and  possessed  by  compara- 
tively few,  but  precious  to  those  who  do  possess  it.     She 
explains  the  source  of  her  pseudonym  in  the  pages  of  an 
old    diary,    while    speaking    of   her    resolve    to    keep    a 
journal. 

'For  the  piece,  it  shall  be  just  my  daily  life,  the  life 
behind  the  scenes,  and  the  audience  shall  sit  at  the 
back,  and  for  the  Dramatis  Personae  I  will  myself 
represent  them,  for  of  what  other  do  I  know  anything.? 
and  lest   this    /   should   grow   troublesome   and    impor- 


24  MARY  COLERIDGE 

tunate,  I  will  christen  myself  over  again,  make  George 
Macdonald  my  godfather,  and  name  myself  after  my 
favourite  hero,  Anodos  in  Phantasies.  ...  If  Anodos 
dies  or  gets  married,  the  work  will  be  discontinued ; 
no  one  writes  diaries  in  Paradise.  If  not,  vogue  la 
galere.'' 

But  if  she  were  on  no  road,  as  the  name  she  chose 
suggests,  it  was  because  she  had  stepped  aside  into  the 
pathless  meadows  of  poesy.  None  who  know  such 
haunts  can  miss  the  real  poet's  note  of  her  verse — the 
fresh  sincerity  of  her  inspiration — the  often  gem-like 
choice  of  her  words — and  the  subtle,  quiet  music  of  her 
metres,  usually  simple  ones,  but  beautiful  in  their 
delicate  interlacings. 

Fancy's  Following^  and  its  successor,  Fancy's  Guerdon^ 
brought  her  appreciation  from  those  whose  opinion  she 
valued.  And  among  them  was  another  poet  besides 
Bridges,  with  whom  she  had  sometime  since  formed  a 
friendship.  This  was  Canon  Dixon,  the  friend  of  the 
Pre-Raphaelites,  the  lyrical  mystic,  about  whom  Mary 
wrote  one  of  her  most  charming  essays.  '  The  Hermit  of 
Warkworth,'  in  Non  Sequitur.  With  him  she  also 
corresponded,  chiefly  on  poetic  matters. 

It  is  interesting  that  she  learned  to  know  both  these 
poets  mainly  through  correspondence.  She  had  made 
acquaintance  with  them  on  her  own  merits,  and  that 
created  an  equality  which   did   away  with  her  shyness. 

'  Fancy's  Guerdon  contained  several  of  the  poems  in  Fancy^s 
Following,  besides  a  good  many  new  ones.  It  was  published  by  Elkin 
Matthews. 


MARY  COLERIDGE  25 

Whereas  with  such  great  men  as  Browning  and  Tennyson, 
who  saw  in  her  but  her  father's  daughter,  she  formed  no 
personal  relation.  Vivid  and  detailed  are  her  descriptions 
of  Tennyson's  talk  and  of  his  reading,  to  which  she  had 
the  chance  of  listening  on  many  visits  to  Farringford, 
but  there  she  was  too  timid  to  reveal  herself — she 
remained  an  unobserved  spectator. 

Her  poems  were  followed,  in  1897,  by  her  historical 
romance,  The  K'lTig  with  Two  Faces^  which  had 
immediate  success  and  suddenly  brought  her  reputation. 
She  herself  told  a  friend  in  India  the  story  of  how  it 
came  to  be  written,  and  the  account  is  worth  quoting, 
because  it  gives  a  notion  of  the  odd  quality  of  her 
creativeness. 

'  About  four  years  ago,  one  night  when  all  the  rest 
had  gone  to  bed,  the  first  chapter  came  into  my  head, 
and  I  scribbled  it  down,  only  putting  letters  for  the 
different  men,  because  I  couldn't  be  bothered  to  find 
names.  Why  they  were  there — for  whom  they  were 
waiting — what  they  wanted  to  kill  him  for — I  couldn't 
imagine.  It  bothered  me  dreadfully.  When  I'd  written 
about  a  page  and  a  half,  I  stopped,  but  it  almost  made 
me  feel  ill  to  know  that  I  coiddnt  go  on.  I  should  think 
a  kettle  might  feel  like  that,  if  it  wanted  to  boil 
and  couldn't.  However,  it  was  no  use ;  so  I  put  it  aside. 
Some  time  afterwards  I  came  on  the  story  of  Ribbing  in 
the  memoirs  of  Alexandre  Dumas,  pere,  who  was  the 
bosom  friend  of  his  son,  and  all  at  once  it  flashed  across 
me  that  this  was  the  man.  So  I  went  on,  and  showed 
the  beginning  to  two  people  who  didn't  care  for  it,  and 


26  MARY  COLERIDGE 

to  three  people  who  did,  and  the  three  people  who  did 
were  very  encouraging  and  pulled  it  through  somehow. 
.  .  .  When  I  had  done  nearly  half,  a  new  Life  of 
Gustav  III.  came  out,  and  I  had  to  make  any  number  of 
alterations.  ...  At  last  it  got  itself  finished,  and  the 
committee  struck  out  two  purely  historical  chapters  at 
the  end  (most  interesting  I  thought  they  were — they 
were  all  by  the  best  authorities).' 

Her  first  chapters  were  genei-ally  conceived  in  tliis 
manner,  and  a  distinguished  writer  once  said  of  her 
that  if  a  volume  were  made  of  her  '  Beginnings ""  she 
would  rank  as  a  genius  of  the  first  order.  But  her 
creativeness  was  incomplete.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  she 
had  not  enough  talent  to  support  and  sustain  her  genius. 
Yet  that  her  imagination  rang  true  there  was  striking 
proof.  The  novel  was  read  by  the  Swedish  Minister, 
whose  wife  was  a  descendant  of  the  heroine ;  and  he  was 
startled  to  find  in  the  account  of  her,  an  incident  con- 
cerning her  affairs  which,  as  he  thought,  was  known  to 
none — was,  indeed,  only  discoverable  in  certain  private 
family  papers.  He  had  underrated  the  power  of 
creative  insight,  and  the  author  was  enchanted. 

The  King  was  succeeded,  in  1899,  by  The  Fiery 
Dawn;  and,  in  1900,  came  her  volume  of  Essays,  Non 
Sequitur — to  some  the  prose  work  of  hers  they  love  the 
best.  Nineteen  hundred  and  five  brought  The  Shadow 
on  the  Wall,  an  early  story  revived,  and  printed  to  get 
money  for  her  poor;  and,  in  1906,  she  gave  us  the 
maturest  of  her  novels,  The  Lady  on  the  Draxving-room 
Floor,  a  fascinating  gossamer  web  of  fact  and  fancy,  of 


MARY  COLERIDGE  27 

human  insight  and  poetic  oversight,  of  graceful  drollery 
and  shadowy  melancholy.  And  in  the  final  year  of  her 
life  she  was  busy  over  a  mediaeval  romance,  which 
remained  unfinished  on  her  writing  table,  together  with 
the  last  completed  pages  of  a  short  life  of  Holman  Hunt 
— the  modem  painter  who,  perhaps,  most  kindled  her 
enthusiasm — written  at  his  own  request  for  a  series  of 
Artists'  Biographies. 

But  the  work  by  which  her  name  will  live,  the  per- 
fected collection  of  her  poems  (two  hundred  and  twenty- 
seven  of  them,  including  the  original  forty-five),  did  not 
appear  till  after  her  death.  They  were  found  in  note- 
books and  in  letters,  in  odd  corners  here,  there,  and 
everywhere — these  revelations  of  her  innermost  life ; 
now  deep  and  still,  like  the  reflections  in  a  pool,  with 
here  and  there  a  trembling  when  the  winds  of  thought 
swept  over  her ;  now  more  like  a  meteoric  flash,  quick, 
brilliant,  lost  in  mist,  before  those  who  looked  had 
grasped  its  presence. 

Of  her  prose  it  is  harder  to  speak.  Her  novels  were 
the  novels  of  a  poet,  and  this  was  her  weakness  and  her 
strength.  In  her  writing  she  showed  the  same  wilful 
love  of  mystification  that  she  showed  in  her  life.  Will- 
o'-the-wisp-like,  she  would  lead  her  reader  the  unkindest 
and  crookedest  of  dances ;  anywhere  to  avoid  walking 
straight.  This  perversity,  added  to  a  natural  inability 
to  construct,  often  made  her  stories  obscure,  and  the 
plots  very  hard  to  follow.  And  then  she  had  an  almost 
paradoxical  conviction  of  the  fictitiousness  of  fact. 
'  Unreality  attracts  certain  minds,  as  money  attracts  the 


28  MARY  COLERIDGE 

miser,  rank  the  base-born,  heroic  death  the  young.  The 
unreal  denizens  of  that  world  are  to  some  people  dearer 
than  flesh  and  blood.  Not  to  all.  "  So  natural,  so  real," 
say  the  people  who  live  in  world  No.  1,  when  they  read 
story-books;  but  they  speak  falsely.  Life  is  not  a 
story-book,  or  no  stories  need  ever  be  written.  .  .  . 
There  is  nothing  so  inconsistent,  so  inartistic  as  reality. 
Humorous  it  may  be  and  pathetic — more  humorous  and 
more  pathetic  than  any  story  that  was  ever  written — 
but  quite  without  that  strange  power  of  pleasing,  and 
satisfying,  which  is  the  property  of  things  and  people 
that  never  were."  These  words  of  hers  are  the  keynote 
of  her  writing.  They  represent  her  constant  conviction. 
But  since  she  handled  common  things  and  human  beings, 
it  often  led  her  astray ;  and  criticism  which  would  be 
unfair  if  she  had  only  dealt  in  irresponsible  fancy,  is 
sometimes  justified  by  her  airy  treatment  of  the  real. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  glamour  of  romance,  the  atmo- 
sphere of  gallant  paradox,  the  challenge  from  the  Unseen 
to  the  seen,  lend  a  charm,  all  their  own,  to  her  pages. 
Whether  or  no  she  could  draw  a  man,  whether  or  no  her 
women  live,  life  lives  in  her  books — life,  as  she  saw  it,  with 
the  eyes  of  her  pure  quixotic  spirit,  by  the  light  of  her 
gay  and  nimble  wit.  And  over  every  volume  she  wrote 
are  scattered  sayings,  beautiful  and  helpful,  words  that 
enlighten  and  suggest,  thoughts,  impressions,  that  haunt 
us  by  their  unconscious  daring. 

It  was  a  surprise,  and  a  happy  one,  that  Mary 
Coleridge  enjoyed  her  success,  although  she  did  not 
enjoy  allusions  to  it.     Her  shy  manners  melted   before 


MARY  COLERIDGE  29 

it.  She  no  longer  came  into  a  room  apologetically — her 
presence  gained  a  certain  repose.  And  she  began  to 
like  accepting  invitations. 

'  I  \e  become  very  conceited,'  she  wrote  ;  '  E.  is  not  so 
conceited  as  I  am,  though  she  has  been  to  see  the 
descendants  of  her  book,  and  they  all  .  .  .  put  on 
grand  silk  blouses  in  her  honour.  .  .  .  She  has  never 
got  over  the  fact  that  she  bicycled  down  to  them  and 
appeared  in  a  humble  bicycling  skirt.  Now  I  appeared 
to  mine  robed  in  green  and  gold,  with  a  Gainsborough 
hat.'  It  was,  indeed,  the  best  result  of  her  growing 
reputation  that  her  work  put  her  into  touch  with  the 
many  minds  to  whom  it  appealed.  It  made  friends  for 
her  outside  her  immediate  circle,  less  distinguished  than 
Bridges  and  Dixon,  but  stimulating  to  her  intellect. 
Some  were  interesting,  others  were  not,  but  often  Mary 
did  not  know  the  difference.  At  all  times  of  her  life 
she  had  an  unaccountable  faculty  for  finding  the  dull 
and  dowdy  delightful,  and  full  of  strange  attractions. 
Nor  was  this  due  to  any  Christian  motive,  but  only  to 
her  power  of  falling  in  love — and  falling  in  love  faith- 
fully. You  could  never  tell  whom  Mary  would  like, 
or  whom  she  would  dislike,  and  as  for  the  reasons  of 
her  feelings,  they  baffled  herself  as  much  as  others. 
Her  tastes  and  prejudices  flowed  in  a  whimsical  channel, 
which  seemed  to  lie  quite  apart  from  the  rest  of  her 
gentle  nature.  If  asked  why  she  expressed  antipathy  or 
sympathy,  she  would  only  reiterate  her  verdict,  she 
could  not  explain  it.  And  sometimes  it  was  not  the 
dull  people,  but  the  frivolous,  whom    she    liked    incon- 


30  MARY  COLERIDGE 

sistently.  Charming  manners  often  had  to  do  with 
it.  They  seldom  failed  to  conquer  her.  Even  with 
characters  in  books  it  was  the  same,  and  in  youth,  when 
she  was  reading  WWielm  Meister,  her  favourite  woman 
was  Philine,  the  light  and  feather-brained  little  actress ; 
she  could  not  endure  the  Schmie  Seele^  with  all  her 
noble  aspirations. 

There  was,  it  is  true,  one  kind  of  person  she  almost 
invariably  liked.  It  was  dangerous  to  bring  her  within 
earshot  of  an  egoist,  for  egoists  always  captivated  her. 
She  never  found  them  out,  and  she  thought  them  the 
most  fascinating  beings.  The  more  they  made  use  of 
her,  the  more  fascinating  she  thought  them.  It  was 
partly  because  she  was  selfless  and  enjoyed  devotion  to 
others.  But  it  was  also  because  she  worshipped  vitality 
and  a  strong  consciousness,  the  forces  she  longed  for  and 
missed  in  herself;  forces  which  egoists  possess,  even 
although  they  may  only  lie  in  a  strong  consciousness  of 
self.  Mary  Coleridge  often  wore  herself  out  in  the 
service  of  amiable  despots,  doing  things  for  them  that 
any  drudge  could  have  done  as  well,  and  thinking  all 
the  time  what  exceptional  beings  they  were. 

But  to  old  friends  and  to  new  alike,  what  a  friend 
she  was  !  Those  who  had  her  friendship  knew  well  that 
there  was  nothing  like  it.  In  a  way  that  was  hers  alone, 
she  lived  the  life  of  the  heart.  Her  friends''  existences 
were  hers.  She  did  not  share  their  joys  and  sorrows — she 
identified  herself  with  them  ;  so  much  so,  that  she  hardly 
distinguished  them  from  her  own,  and  thus,  unknown  to 
herself,  they  went  on  furnishing  her  with  the  experiences 


MARY  COLERIDGE  31 

she  lacked.  Some,  indeed,  of  her  poems  that  seem  the 
most  intimately  personal  give  a  false  impression  of 
wishes  and  sufferings  she  never  had.  They  are  inspired 
by  what  happened  to  those  she  loved — by  feelings  and 
episodes  sometimes  serious,  sometimes  transient,  but 
intensified  by  her  imagination.  It  was  always  the 
imagination  of  the  heart,  not  the  head.  She  had  no 
curiosity,  only  sympathy.  To  have  a  success  shared  by 
I\Iary  Coleridge  was  a  revelation  of  generosity.  Any 
triumph  of  those  she  cared  for  intoxicated  her — there  is 
no  other  word ;  the  embarrassment  she  felt  when  she 
herself  was  praised  was  compensated  for  by  her  delight 
in  the  praise  she  heard  of  others.  And  as  with  their 
happiness,  so  with  their  grief.  She  was  a  lyre  over 
whose  responsive  strings  every  emotion  swept,  making 
music.  The  letters  that  she  wrote  to  those  in  sorrow  are 
among  the  few  that  say  the  unsayable.  She  could  not 
be  conventional ;  she  never  tried  to  comfort ;  she  knew 
that  what  is  called  '  getting  over '  a  loss  is  the  worst 
part  of  it.  She  feared  to  handle  the  unseen,  and  shrank 
from  the  glibness  of  religious  commonplace.  But  all  her 
words  were  transfused  by  a  light  from  within  that  was 
kindled  by  faith  in  God. 


About  the  little  chambers  of  my  heart 

Friends  have  been  coming — going — many  a  year. 

The  door  stands  open  there. 
Some,  lightly  stepping,  enter  ;  some  depart. 


Her  own  lines  best  describe  her  friendships. 

One  secret  of  her  power  was  that  to  each  inmate  of 


32  MARY  COLERIDGE 

those  chambers  she  gave  such  a  devotion  that  it  seemed 
as  if  he  were  her  only  friend.  '  There  's  nobody  to  say 
just  the  things  you  say  ;  there's  nobody  to  whom  I  say 
just  what  I  say  to  you.  One  bit  of  my  heart  is  all  dried 
up  "* — so  she  wrote  to  a  friend  who  was  abroad,  but  she 
might  have  used  the  words  to  any  one  absent  member  of 
her  spacious  commonwealth. 

As  she  grew  older,  there  were  many  young  people  who 
'  lightly  stepped ''  in  and  out,  with  the  confidences  and 
merriment  of  youth  :  maidens  whom  she  taught,  and, 
towards  the  end,  young  men  who  came  to  her  for  literary 
criticism,  for  sympathy  of  all  sorts.  They  filled  her  life 
with  fresh  interest.  '  I  could  not  do  without  new  friend- 
ships— they  refresh  me,*"  she  said  two  months  before  she 
died.  And  then  there  were  the  children  she  loved. 
She  had  a  profound  reverence  for  childhood,  and  it 
sometimes  made  her  shy  of  them,  till  they,  in  turn,  were 
shy  of  her.  But  when  her  diflSdence  vanished,  there  was 
no  one  they  loved  better ;  and  those  whom  she  enchanted 
by  her  stories,  or  those  rarer  and  more  favoured  ones 
whom  she  took  with  her  to  see  pictures  and  statues  and 
to  listen  to  her  wonder-tales  about  them,  are  not  likely 
to  forget  what  she  told  them,  or  to  lose  her  image  from 
their  hearts. 

So  she  lived,  surrounded  by  those  she  loved.  Yet  it 
must  not  be  supposed  that  she  was  constantly  dependent 
upon  companionship.  She  could  not  get  on  without 
solitude.  '  It  has  been  wonderful ;  solitude  is  so  ex- 
citing,'' was  her  comment  on  a  long  time  of  loneliness 
which  her  friends  had  dreaded  for  her.     Her  quickened 


MARY  COLERIDGE  33 

imagination  had    possessed    her ;  thronging    fancies  had 
been  her  guests. 

As  to  her  relations  to  books,  they  were  much  like  her 
relations  to  people.  To  books  she  gave  the  same  kind 
of  criticism — wayward,  enthusiastic,  unreasoned.  She 
seldom  went  back  upon  a  judgment,  because  it  was 
based  upon  something  instinctive,  stronger  than  herself, 
which  made  her  unconvertible.  She  was  fond,  as  has 
been  seen,  of  powerful  or  strange  effects  in  literature,  and 
was  surprisingly  a  modern  in  her  likings.  In  life,  she 
shrank  from  violence — in  art  it  often  gave  her  pleasure. 
She  welcomed  Renoir  and  Monet  with  delight,  and  found 
in  them  nothing  that  puzzled  her.  And  she  hailed  Ibsen 
in  a  day  when  very  few  acknowledged  him.  These 
advanced  tastes  of  hers  stood  out  in  unexpected  contrast 
to  the  almost  old-fashioned  modesty  and  self-restraint  of 
her  character — in  contrast,  also,  to  her  admiration  for 
the  Pre-Raphaelites.  But  she  was  always  many-sided, 
and,  in  her,  the  love  for  one  kind  of  art  did  not  preclude 
an  equal  love  for  another.  Her  modernness  did  not  inter- 
fere with  her  classicism,  but  she  had  a  great  mistrust  of 
any  grooves  and  of  any  academic  shibboleth.  Yet, 
catholic  though  she  was,  you  could  never  wholly  count 
upon  her.  You  might  bring  her  a  poem  that  you  would 
have  sworn  she  would  care  for,  you  might  enjoy  the 
prospect  of  sharing  it  with  her  and  then  be  met  by  a 
disappointing  blank.  She  was  probably  put  oft'  by  some 
heaviness,  or  off'ended  by  some  detail ;  for  it  was  another 
of  her  peculiarities  that  detail  often  struck  her  first, 
sometimes  to  the  injury  of  main  outlines.  'I  always 
c 


34  MARY  COLERIDGE 

remember  kittens  and  balls  of  worsted  instead  of  the  big 
things/  she  wrote — '  It  is  a  terrible  mistake  to  be  born 
with  such  a  capacity  for  seeing  details  that  you  never 
see  anything  else.  And  even  the  details  generally  belong 
to  something  I  don't  think  they  belong  to.'  All  these 
qualities  made  her  a  stimulating,  but  not  a  safe  literary 
counsellor.  The  reviews  that  she  wrote  for  the  Montlily 
Review  and  Guardian^  and,  from  1902  onwards,  for 
the  Times  Literary  Supplement^  are  always  charming 
bits  of  herself  and  sometimes  good  pieces  of  criticism. 
But  unequal  though  she  was  as  a  reviewer,  she  never 
failed  to  be  a  fine  and  sane  j  udge  of  all  that  was  really 
great,  of  all  that  was  really  petty.  And  when  set  on 
some  special  task,  such  as  advising  a  fellow-writer,  her 
pronouncements  gave  new  light  and  lent  fresh  impulse. 
For  herself,  she  avoided  criticism,  because  she  knew  how 
impossible  it  was,  however  she  might  wish  it,  to  alter 
what  she  had  written — at  least  as  far  as  her  stories  were 
concerned.  In  verbal  matters,  and  in  poetry,  she  could 
sometimes  change,  and  she  would  do  so,  when  she  could, 
with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  although  she  knew  very 
well  how  to  hold  her  own,  with  a  breezy  power  of 
resistance.  And  no  one  was  stricter  or  more  con- 
scientious with  herself.  She  corrected  and  re-corrected 
and  re-wrote,  with  a  scrupulous  perseverance. 

Music  was  the  taste  that  developed  last  in  her.  Her 
love  for  it  was  growing  when  she  died.  She  always 
cared  for  opera,  and  it  was  characteristic  of  her  that 
she  early  became  spell-bound  by  Wagner.  But  here  the 
poetry  counted,  perhaps,  for  more  than  the  music.     Her 


MARY  COLERIDGE  35 

sister's  playing  first  revealed  Beethoven  to  her — late  in 
the  day — and,  after  him,  Brahms.  And  gradually  music 
expressed  for  her  things  that  nothing  else  could  express. 

Voice  of  the  stars  wlien  earth  arose  from  sleep, 
And  Light,  the  Eldest  Child  of  God,  was  horn 

And  flashed  his  beams  across  the  shining  deep. 
Voice  of  the  Angels,  ere  the  ruddy  morn 

Had  clomb  the  Palestinian  mountains  steep. 

While  drowsy  shepherds  watched  beside  their  sheep. 

These  lines  are  called  '  Music  '  in  her  note-book. 

One  of  the  pleasures  that  she  most  enjoyed,  but 
seldom  indulged  in,  was  travel.  In  her  youth  she  went 
yearly  to  Germany,  and  Germany,  the  land  of  fairy-tale, 
was  well  suited  to  her  fancy.  But,  as  with  most  poets, 
it  was  Italy  that  possessed  her.  She  was  never  in  Rome, 
but  once  she  went  to  Florence  and  Perugia,  and  once 
she  saw  Venice.  She  was  with  her  great  friends,  the 
Fuller-Maitlands,  and  that  holiday  worked  magic  in  her 
imagination. 

For  the  rest,  she  shall  speak  for  herself,  in  two  letters 
from  abroad.     The  first  is  written  in  1893  from  Perugia. 

'  I  am  off  my  head  with  happiness.  I  feel  as  if  I  'd 
come  not  to  a  Fatherland  but  to  a  Motherland  that 
I  had  always  longed  for  and  never  known.  How  I  am 
ever  to  leave  it  I  don't  know.  How  I  am  ever  to  be 
happy  anywhere  else  I  can't  think.  "  Here  will  I  dwell, 
for  I  have  a  delight  therein."  .  .  .  We  went  to  Assisi 
yesterday.  .  .  .  The  little  black  Delia  Robbia  of  St. 
Francis,  its  dim  eyes  gazing  out  of  the  darkness  where 
the  darkness   of  death  fell   upon   him,  struck   me   more 


36  MARY  COLERIDGE 

than  anything  else ;  if  I  had  had  five  minutes  alone 
there,  my  own  eyes  would  have  spoken  to  his  in  tears. 
The  white  Nativity  on  the  other  side  of  the  church 
fills  the  very  name  of  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli  with 
light.  Heavenly  joy  and  divine  sorrow,  that  is  indeed 
a  House  of  God  which  holds  them  both.  Of  the  pictures 
here,  I  love  best  the  stiff  Bonfigli  Pieta.  ...  I  am  also 
deeply  attached  to  the  jam-tart  angel,  and  to  two  of 
Caporali's,  and  to  a  charming  ox  with  his  paws  curled 
round  St.  Luke's  Gospel.  ...  I  stood  on  the  steps  (of 
the  Cathedral)  this  morning  and  tried  to  fancy  Fra 
Bernardino  preaching  from  that  little  open  pulpit  and  all 
the  excited  people  crying  in  the  Piazza.  One  seems  to 
have  travelled  far  away  not  only  in  space  but  in  time. 
It  would  surprise  me  much  less  to  meet  Benedict  xi. 
round  the  corner  than  it  would  to  see  Oscar  Wilde.' 

The  second  letter  came  from  the  Romischer  Kaiser, 
at  Freiburg  im  Breisgau. 

'  This  is  the  dearest,  queerest  little  city.  Whenever 
any  one  dies  or  gets  married  they  build  a  little  pink 
tower  and  as  likely  as  not,  they  roof  it  with  bright  green 
tiles.  The  troops  are  always  manoeuvring,  the  Grand 
Duke  is  always  having  a  birthday,  or  the  Patron  Saint 
a  Festival.  The  streets  bubble  and  splash  with  running 
streams  and  fountains — the  lovely  Cathedral  broods  on 
its  nest  of  gabled  houses  like  a  great  bird — in  the  stuffy 
but  charming  theatre  Tannhiiuser  and  Wilhelm  Tell 
are  crowned  with  wreaths  of  German  asters.  The  priests 
are  very  nice  indeed  and  wear  neat  violet  sashes.  This 
house  was  built  in  1408.     All  sorts  of  emperors,  Roman 


MARY  COLERIDGE  37 

and  otherwise,  appear  to  have  stayed  in  it.  If  they  get 
such  excellent  Windbeutel  as  we  do,  I  'm  sure  I  don't 
wonder.' 

Three  years  before  this  letter  was  written,  the 
Coleridges"'  close  family  circle  was  broken  up.  In  1898 
Mary's  mother  died,  leaving  her  more  than  ever  the 
companion  of  the  father  she  so  adored.  She,  he,  and 
her  sister  formed  an  indivisible  trio.  No  one  ever  dared 
to  think  of  them  apart.  But  outside  the  well-loved 
home  Mary  had  suffered  painful  losses.  Many  of  her 
friends  were  older  by  a  generation  than  herself,  and  one 
by  one  they  had  passed  away.  Then,  within  her  own 
household,  came  the  dangerous  illness  of  her  sister,  and 
again  she  was  face  to  face  with  death.  The  blow  did 
not  fall  and  her  dearest  was  spared  to  her,  but  the  deep 
distress  of  the  suspense  left  its  ineffaceable  traces.  All 
these  things  made  her  think  even  more  constantly  about 
the  subjects  that  had  always  haunted  her — about  the 
mystery  of  dying  and  the  hidden  problems  beyond  death. 
Her  poems  show  us  how  omnipresent  such  thoughts 
became  with  her.  '  This  world  grows  more  and  more 
shadowy,  and  the  other  world  more  real  as  I  grow  older,' 
she  said  to  a  friend  not  long  before  she  died  ;  and  when 
cares  thickened  round  her  it  sometimes  seemed  as  if  she 
could  no  longer  bear  the  strain  of  mortality  except  by 
flight  into  the  world  of  the  imagination.  A  spiritual 
imagination — and  one  which  is  better  described  by  that 
attribute  than  by  the  word  religious.  For  thougli  Mary 
Coleridge   was   religious,  and   deeply    so,  no    four    walls 


38  MARY  COLERIDGE 

could  contain  her  faith.  It  was  diffused  throughout  her 
being — her  work,  her  play,  her  tears,  her  laughter.  She 
was  imbued  with  a  mystical  sense  of  the  divine  in  human 
life,  and  although  a  beautiful  service  appealed  to  her  in 
church,  more  than  all  in  a  cathedral,  she  disliked  any 
ritual  in  daily  existence,  any  set  times  even  for  devotion, 
any  hard  and  fast  rule  for  conduct — and  most  when 
such  rules  interfered  with  natural  habits  and  affections. 
'  Don't  you  find  the  Life  of  Pascal  very  depressing  ? ' 
she  wrote,  'Saints  who  object  to  their  sisters  kissing 
them  puzzle  me  more  than  a  murder."  But  the  more 
she  disregarded  formulas,  the  more  deeply  did  she  care 
for  the  truth  behind  them.  Born  into  the  Church  of 
England,  she  remained  in  it;  she  was  loyal  to  its 
traditions,  and  loved,  as  she  said,  to  kneel  where  her 
forefathers  had  knelt.  But  as  she  grew  older,  faith 
seemed  to  her  larger  than  any  set  of  beliefs ;  the  life  of 
Christ  more  vital  than  Christianity. 

'  I  went  .  .  .  this  morning  to  hear  the  Bishop,'  runs  a 
letter,  'and  at  the  end  of  nearly  two  hours  of  him, 
felt  how  much  better  the  time  would  have  been  employed 
readino-  to  an  old  woman  in  Yeoman's  Row  or  looking 
at  pictures  in  the  National  Gallery.  .  .  .  All  the  de- 
testableness  of  modern  words  cannot  spoil  the  Gospel. 
I  took  to  that  when  the  Bishop  failed  this  morning, 
and  wondered  how  people  can  love  things  about  it 
better  than  the  thing  itself.' 

The  last  words  are  characteristic.  She  was  hardly 
ever  severe,  but  she  was  so  towards  those  who  put  a 
strained  interpretation  on  central  facts  and  thus  stretched 


MARY  COLERIDGE  39 

the  bounds  of  orthodoxy.  Herself  a  Christian,  she  had 
a  fellow-feeling  for  heresies  and  heterodoxies,  so  long 
as  they  were  straiglitforward.  But  the  assumption  of 
figurative  meanings  in  the  place  of  simple  truths,  the 
evasion  of  facts  in  religion  by  means  of  high-flown  fancy, 
seemed  quibbling  in  her  eyes,  and  the  glib  envisagement 
of  faith  which  they  encouraged  more  false  than  either 
the  rigours  of  dogmatism,  or  the  arid  ethics  of  Herbert 
Spencer. 

For  Mary  Coleridge  had  known  doubts.  She  had 
suffered  from  them  often.  And  so  she  always  had 
sympathy  with  those  who  did  not  get  beyond  doubts, 
and  felt  a  strong  attraction  for  writers  who,  like  Amiel, 
could  analyse  them  with  delicacy  and  reverence.  But 
hers  were  not  the  doubts  of  modern  thought ;  they  were 
the  fears — the  misty  fears — of  a  poet.  Sometimes  they 
closed  in  upon  her  for  a  little,  and  she  seemed  like  one 
who  moved  through  thronging  shadows  and  fought  them 
with  a  silver  sword.  Imagination  came  to  her  help 
and  brought  her  through ;  the  same  imagination  that 
plunged  her  in,  leading  her  to  places  that  she  never 
meant  to  reach.  For  it  was  more  daring  than  she  knew. 
The  poet  in  her  was  bolder  than  the  woman,  and  there- 
fore there  were  conflicts  in  her  soul.  Yet  the  poet  it 
was  that  came  to  the  rescue. 

What  am  I?  Next  door  to  nothing,  but  a  point  in  boundless 

space ; 
Made  of  something  tliat  I  know  not,  masked  and  witnessed 

by  a  face, 
(aught  and  firmly  held  together  by  a  Body  and  a  Mind, 
With  Eternity  before  it,  and  Eternity  behind. 


40  MARY  COLERIDGE 

What  is  walking,  runniug,  leaping  to  the  joy  of  airy  flight? 

What  is  sight  beside  the  seeing  in  the  Infinite  of  sight  ? 

AVhat  were  knowledge,  what  were  wisdom,  were  I  wise  and 

when  I  knew  ? 
Truth  itself  were  Truth  no  longer,  if  a  man  could  prove  it  true. 

It  was  thus  that  she  continued  to  achieve  belief.  The 
lamp  of  her  faith  might  flicker  in  the  wind,  but  it  never 
went  out ;  it  was  held  by  a  steady  hand.  And  if  the 
flame  was  not  fiery,  it  was  pure.  '  If  I  die,  I  am  going  to 
God,"  the  words  were  among  the  last  she  spoke. 

It  has  seemed  needful  to  say  as  much,  because  her 
poems  have  sometimes  given  a  wrong  impression.  She 
got  in  verse  relief  from  doubts  that  pressed  upon  her, 
and  so  she  constantly  gave  them  voice.  Whereas  that 
central  belief  in  God  and  the  soul  which  never  faded 
from  her,  which  made  itself  felt  in  her  presence,  and  gave 
her  that  kind  of  glowing  humility  unlike  any  other — this 
remained  as  her  treasure  and  her  strength,  and  found 
expression  much  more  rarely. 

She  never  dealt  in  heroics;    yet  perhaps  she  envied, 

although    she    did    not    share,  the    single  vision  of  the 

fanatic.     Gordon  was  the  hero  she  chose — Gordon  who 

served  man  and  gave  himself  and  obeyed  no  law  but  that 

of  his  soul. 

O  mighty  spirit,  whither  art  thou  fled  ? 
No  mate  was  found  in  all  the  world  for  thee  ; 
Whom  hast  thou  chosen  for  thy  company 
In  all  the  shadowy  regions  of  the  dead  ? 

So  she  wrote  of  the  man  who  was  both  saint  and  daring 
adventurer,  enthusiast,  and  humorist.  He  summed  up 
much  that  she  herself  would  have  liked  to  be. 


MARY  COLERIDGE  41 

It  is  difficult  to  give  even  the  most  inadequate  idea  of 
Mary  Coleridge's  soul.  It  is  as  difficult  to  give  any  true 
impression  of  her  appearance — of  the  fair  hair,  the  small 
head,  the  long  swaying  figure,  which  stooped  rather 
forwards  when  she  moved,  or  when  she  talked  with  self- 
forgetfulness.  She  looked  very  much  like  one  of  the 
women  in  Blake's  pictures.  Her  form  had  the  same 
quality  of  intangibleness — her  step  seemed  to  tread  upon 
air.  And  she  also  bore  a  resemblance  to  a  certain  lady 
of  Fra  Angelico's — slender,  devout — who,  full  of  a  gay 
spirituality  and  seated  on  the  ground  with  her  companions, 
is  bending  towards  a  preacher  in  a  pulpit  and  drinking  in 
his  words  with  her  soul.  She  would  have  looked  well  in 
that  dress  of  early  Florence,  better  still,  perhaps,  in 
Blake  draperies.  As  it  was,  she  hardly  knew  what  she 
had  on,  although  picturesque  clothes  on  others  delighted 
her.  Whatever  ornaments  she  wore  were  characteristic. 
Many  of  her  best  jewels  she  had  sold  to  help  the  poor, 
but  she  never  parted  with  any  that  her  friends  had  given 
her.  To  her  they  were  symbols,  not  ornaments.  And 
there  were  others,  emblems  of  old  associations,  that  were 
always  part  of  her  person.  All  who  knew  her  will 
remember  the  coral  charm  against  the  evil  eye  that  had 
dangled  since  her  childhood  from  her  watch-chain.  Rings 
she  would  have  none  of;  she  said  they  fettered  her;  nor 
would  they  have  suited  her  hands,  '  those  little  spirit- 
hands  of  hers,'  delicate  yet  strong.  They  were  as  signi- 
ficant as  her  eyes — blue  eyes  with  gleams  of  grey,  rather 
observant  than  dreamy.  Her  dreaminess  was  expressed 
more  by  her  mouth,  but  that  too  was  very  mobile  :  some- 


42  MARY  COLERIDGE 

times  still  and  rather  sad,  sometimes  gay  with  a  little 
amused  smile,  full  of  a  droll  indulgence ;  or  eager  with  that 
other  kind  of  smile,  responsive,  expectant,  which  lit  her 
face  when  you  told  her  of  something  you  admired,  and 
she  had  caught  your  pleasure  almost  before  you  had 
expressed  it.  Yet  when  all  is  said,  one  can  but  return 
to  the  word  '  spiritual ''  as  the  only  one  that  describes  her, 
body  and  soul. 

For  while  she  did  this  lower  world  adorn^ 
Her  body  seem'd  rather  assumed  than  born  ; 
So  rarified,  advanced,  so  pure  and  whole, 
That  body  might  have  been  another's  soul. 

Those  lines  of  a  seventeenth-century  poet  seem  made 
for  Mary  Coleridge. 

It  was  perhaps  because  there  was  this  unity  about  her 
that  her  diffident  presence  seldom  failed  to  make  a  strong 
impression,  even  upon  those  who  had  only  seen  her  once. 
Many  of  these  of  every  class  wrote  to  say  so  after  her 
death.  '  She  was  good,''  said  the  landlady  of  some 
lodgings  where  she  had  stayed. — 'No,  she  wasn't;  she 
was  something  much  better  than  good.'  And  nowhere 
was  the  impression  stronger  than  in  the  Working 
Women's  College,  where,  for  her  last  twelve  years,  on 
Tuesday  evenings,  she  held  a  class  on  English  literature.^ 
How  she  kindled  their  tired  minds,  after  their  long  day's 
work,  with  the  love  of  prose  and  poetry,  was  a  feat  in 
itself.    But  more  wonderful  still  was  the  way  she  won  the 

1  For  a  while,  at  the  outset,  she  taught  EngUsh  grammar,  but  she  was 
glad  when  a  vacancy  in  a  teachership  allowed  her  to  undertake  the  class 
for  hterature. 


MARY  COLERIDGE  43 

confidence  of  all  these  varied  characters,  and  thus,  with 
them,  hridged  over  every  barrier,  affecting  the  nature  of 
each,  firing  all  with  the  love  of  goodness.  When  she 
died,  the  class  was  given  up  altogether.  Her  pupils 
would  not  learn  from  any  one  else. 

Her  last  illness  seized  her  with  a  sharp  suddenness. 
She  had  gone,  as  she  did  every  year,  with  her  father  and 
sister  to  Harrogate.  She  had  been  feeling  low  and 
tired.  One  afternoon  she  had  been  left  at  home  upon  a 
sofa,  only  wanting  repose.  When  her  family  came  back 
from  a  walk,  they  found  her  radiant,  absorbed  in  Shake- 
speare. 'Life  is  worth  living,"  she  said,  '  as  long  as  there 
is  King-  Lear  to  read."" 

Then  there  came  severe  attacks  of  jiain — a  needful 
operation — and  the  end.  That  end  was  like  herself.  She 
knew  that  she  was  dying,  and  she  remembered  to  send  her 
love  to  all  the  household,  even  to  the  '  odd  man.'  She 
had  visions  on  her  bed,  of  roses,  of  a  bird,  larger  and 
more  beautiful  than  any  she  had  ever  seen.  To  the  last 
she  showed  her  love  of  grace  and  beauty.  And  to  the 
last  she  also  kept  her  graciousness.  To  her,  life  and 
death  were  of  one  texture. 

'  I  see  no  object  in  this  detestable  flight  of  Time,''  she 
once  wrote — '  Where  's  he  flying  to  ?  Why  should  we 
pretend  to  like  it  ?  Birthdays  now  seem  to  me  to  be 
like  the  lamp-posts  along  a  road,  when  you  are  nearing 
the  end  of  a  long,  dark,  delicious  drive,  and  however  tired 
you  may  be,  are  still  absolutely  uninclined  to  make  the 
effort  of  getting  out  of  the  comfortable  home  of  a 
carriage,  and   settling  yourself  in  a  new  house.     I  like 


44  MARY  COLERIDGE 

temporary  conditions,  and  the  freedom  of  them.  I  can 
hardly  remember  any  drive — even  to  the  house  of  celestial 
people — to  the  end  of  which  I  was  not  sorry  to  come,  for 
the  moment.  And  "  Forever"  is  such  a  big  house.  Not 
that  I  think  like  this  always  or  often.  For  the  most 
part,  I  don't  remember  my  own  getting  old  at  all,  other 
people's  getting  older  is  so  much  worse.' 

The  'long  dark  delicious''  journey  is  over  and  she  has 
reached  that  '  big  house '  of  rest.  The  chill  autumn 
vapours  will  not  reach  her :  she  cannot  grow  old. 


STORIES 


UNTER  DEN  LINDEN 

'  No,"  said  Sophy,  the  cousin  of  Mr.  Cocks-Danvers. 

'  Yes,  please,'  said  Mr.  Cocks-Danvers,  the  cousin  of 
Sophy. 

It  is  perhaps  as  well  to  state  definitely,  at  the  outset, 
the  exact  degree  of  their  relationship.  They  were 
seconds,  twice  removed. 

Whenever  Sophy  wanted  to  take  a  walk  alone  with 
Mr,  Cocks-Danvers,  she  remembered  this. 

Whenever  Sophy's  papa  said  that  he  objected  to  the 
intermarrying  of  relations,  Mr.  Cocks-Danvers  forgot  it. 
On  the  present  occasion  he  had  forgotten  it  altogether. 
But  certain  other  memories  came  between  him  and  the 
words  that  he  wanted  to  say,  as  they  had  come  between 
over  and  over  again  during  the  last  few  years  of  his  life. 

And  this  was  fortunate  for  Sophy's  papa. 

'  Well ! '  said  Sophy,  weighing  out  her  words  slowly, 
as  if  every  one  of  them  were  an  item  in  a  long  list  of  self- 
sacrifices,  '  if  you  will — make  me  tell  you — what  I  really 
and  truly  think  of  it ' 

'  Why  on  earth  should  I  want  to  hear  what  you  don't 
really  and  truly  think  of  it,  Sophy  ? ' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know  !  You  are  very  rude  to  imply  that 
I  should  tell  stories.  But  then  it's  literary  to  be  rude,  is 
it  not  ?     Literary  men  in  books  generally  are,  especially 


48  STORIES 

to  the  heroine.  Why  should  we  talk  about  our  thoughts 
at  all  ?     Silence  is  golden.' 

'  Give  me  change  then  !     I  want  the  silver.' 

'  The  plot  is  magnificent,"'  Sophy  observed — '  It  reminds 
me  of  one  of  Stevenson's  best,  only  there's  a  something 
about  it  that  Stevenson  has  not  got.  And  your  sense  of 
humour  is  quite  delightful,  Charles,  and  it  never  leaves  a 
bad  taste  in  one's  mouth  like  some  of  the  jokes  in  those 
horrid  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills.  And  the  description 
of  the  tiger  hunt  kept  me  awake  for  hours  last  night.' 

'  My  dear  Sophy,  I  once  had  the  felicity  of  overhearing 
an  interview  of  yours  with  your  cook.  When  I  heard 
you  say  "  The  entree  was  a  great  success,"  I  wished  for 
one  distracted  moment  that  I  had  been  that  happy  per- 
son. When  you  added,  "  But  as  for  the  sweet  things,''''  I 
thanked  my  stars  that  I  was  not ' 

'  Even  her  second  cousin,  twice  removed  ? ' 

'  Oh,  hang  that  cousinly  business.  Won't  you  begin 
upon  the  sweets  at  once  ?  Suspense  is  cruel.  Skip  my 
general  superiority  to  Robert  Louis  and  Rudyard,  and 
come  to  the  point  at  once  ! ' 

'  Well,  then,'  said  Sophy,  '  if  you  must  have  it,  the 
love-making  is  all  wrong.  People  don't  make  love  in 
that  way.' 

'  How  on  earth  do  you  know  ? ' 

'  You  don't  understand  women,'  said  Sophy. 

'  No,'  said  Charles,  with  more  asperity  than  the  occa- 
sion seemed  to  call  for.  '  And  upon  my  soul,  I  'm  glad 
I  do  not  !  I  thought  I  understood  one  woman,  anyhow. 
But  I  believe  they  are  all  alike,  and  they're  all  humbugs. 
There  is  not  one  that  really  says  what  she  means.' 

'  Of  course  not,'  said  Sophy.  '  She  would  be  a  man  if 
she   did.     Besides,  the   story  happened   last  September, 


UNTER  DEN  LINDEN  49 

and  you  have  described  her  in  a  dress  just  like  the  one  I 
was  wearing  when  I  saw  you  the  first  time  three  years 
ago.  How  could  that  possibly  be  right  ?  It  is  the  sort 
of  thing  a  critic  would  come  down  upon  like  a  sledge- 
hammer.'' 

'  Do  you   think   he  would   notice  such  a  little  slip  ? ' 
said  Charles  dubiously. 

'  Not  if  he  were  a  he  ;  but  he 's  very  often  a  she  nowa- 
days.    And  they  write  in  the  Saturday  and  the  AthencEum 
and  everywhere  !     You  really  must  alter  the  dress.' 
Charles  considered  her  attentively. 

'  Can't  I  stick  her  into  the  gown  you  Ve  got  now  ? '  he 
asked. 

'  That  only  shows    how   perfectly  inane   the  cleverest 
men  are/  said  Sophy.     '  I  always  thought   you   had  an 
eye  for  these  things.      So  you   have,   in   a  way.      You 
recollect  most  wonderfully.     But  don't  you  see  that  to 
expose  a  woman  in  the  future  is  as  great  a  mistake  as  to 
muffle  her  up  in  the  past  ?     She  is  never  behind  the  age  ; 
but  if  she's  a  nice  woman,  she  is  never  before  it.' 
'  And  you  don't  think  Celia  a  nice  woman  ? ' 
'  Not  at  all,'  said  Sophy,  with  emphasis. 
'  Good  heavens,  Sophy,  I  thought  she  was  exactly  like 
you  ! ' 

'  Did  you  ?     How  strange  ! ' 

'  Of  course,  when  I  conceived  the  character,  I  had  no 
idea  that  any  one  had  ever  proposed  to  you.' 

'  Who  told  you  any  one  had  ? '  she  cried  indignantly. 
'  You  yourself.     You  said  people  did  not  make  love  in 
that  way.     It  is  clear  to  the  meanest  intelligence   that 
somebody  must  have  made  love  to  you  in  another.' 

Sophy   contemplated    the    branches    of    the    lime-tree 
under  which  they  were  sitting,  and  repressed  an  unfemi- 
D 


50  STORIES 

nine  desire  to  whistle.  After  all,  the  frankest  woman  in 
the  world  is  an  impenetrable  mystery  to  the  most  subtle- 
minded  man  ;  and  Charles  was  not  even  so  subtle  as 
Sophy  thought  him. 

'  I  want  to  know  what  happens  in  the  next  chapter,'' 
she  said.     '  Tell  me  the  end  of  the  story  ! ' 

'  Oh,  I  Ve  not  worked  it  out  yet.  It 's  very  difficult  to 
invent  an  original  ending.' 

'  It  must  be  very  difficult  indeed,"  said  Sophy,  sympa- 
thetically. 'That  is  the  worst  of  stories,  they're  all  so 
like  each  other.  Men's  women  are  never  anything  else 
but  men  and  women,  whether  it's  India,  or  the  High- 
lands, or  Whitechapel.  A  man  falls  in  love  with  a 
woman,  a  woman  falls  in  love  with  a  man,  and  then  they 
marry  or  don't  marry,  or  they  die,  or  one  of  them  dies 
and  the  other  does  not.  I  should  make  Celia  die  if  I 
were  you." 

'  What  crime  has  she  committed,'  said  Charles,  '  except- 
ing that  she  tried  to  be  like  you,  Sophy,  and  failed  ?  Is 
it  not  rather  hard  to  pass  sentence  of  death  on  her  for 
that  .P     No,  I  shall  make  Middleton  die  ! ' 

'  And  leave  me  a  widow  ! '  said  Sophy.  '  What  a  shame  ! 
Widows'  weeds  are  most  dreadfully  unbecoming.  Venus 
herself  could  not  look  well  in  them.  No,  please  don't 
kill  Middleton,  whatever  you  do  !     I  rather — like  him.' 

'  You  don't  behave  as  if  you  did,'  said  Charles,  looking 
at  her  so  steadfastly  that  he  compelled  her  to  turn  and 
look  at  him.     '  But  if  I  could,  I  would  rather  give  the 
story  a  good  ending.' 
'  Why,  may  I  ask  ? ' 

'  Woe  does  not  sell  well.  The  publishers  object  to  it. 
Would  it  be  quite  impossible  for  me  to  end  with  a 
wedding,  do  you  think  .^ ' 


UNTER  DEN  LINDEN  51 

'  Quite  impossible,  if  you  let  Celia  go  on  in  that  way. 
But  she  never  would  have  gone  on  in  that  way.  That's 
what  vexes  me.  Men  think  women  are  such  donkeys. 
How  could  you  make  her  believe  that  he  had  acted 
dishonourably  ? ' 

'  How  could  she  help  believing  it,  when  he  told  her 
himself?' 

'  Just  the  very  reason  why  she  would  not  have  believed 
it!' 

'  But  she  saw  it  with  her  own  eyes.' 

'  The  evidence  of  the  senses,'  said  Sophy  pompously, 
'  is  allowed  on  all  hands  to  be  worthless.  They  are 
always  deceiving  us.' 

'  I  suppose  you  admire  Shakespeare's  Troilus  for  refus- 
ing to  credit  his  eyes  when  they  told  him  that  Cressida 
was  false.  I  must  confess  that  always  appears  to  me 
overstrained.  And  then  he  had  to  believe  them  in  the 
end,  you  know.  Love  may  be  blind,  but  he's  not  so 
blind  as  all  that.' 

'  I  never  read  Troilus  and  Cressida,''  said  Sophy  in  the 
tone  of  one  who  proclaims  a  virtuous  action,  '  therefore  I 
cannot  judge.  But  a  person  who  believes  ill  of  a  friend 
is  just  as  mean  as  mean  can  be.' 

'  Ahem  ! '  said  Charles,  and  he  hummed  the  first  lines 
of  a  song  : 

'  I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honour  more. 

It  was  a  man  who  wrote  that  undoubtedly.  But  can  you 
say  he  was  wrong,  even  with  that  obvious  dis(]ualifica- 
tion .? ' 

'  Rubbish  ! '  said  Sophy.  '  You  don't  love  a  man  be- 
cause he  is  good  ;  you  love  him  because  you  love  him. 


52  STORIES 

Why  did  Middleton  like  Celia  ?  Because  she  had  a  soup 
kitchen,  and  taught  in  the  Sunday  school,  I  suppose  ?' 

'  No,  it  was  not  exactly  that,''  said  Charles ;  '  but 
Sophy,  if — if  I  change  all  this  to  please  you,  if  I  make 
Celia  do  what  no  woman  in  her  senses  would  do — will 
you ' 

'  Will  I  what  ? ' 

'  Be  Celia  and — accept  Middleton  ?' 

'  But  you  are  not  Middleton,""  said  Sophy,  and  this 
time  it  was  the  look  in  her  eyes  that  drew  her  cousin's 
round  to  them. 

'  Yes,  but  I  am.  I  always  wanted  to  tell  you,  Sophy. 
Bat  I  'm  a  fool.  I  could  not.  I  thought  you  'd  hate  me 
for  it.     It  was  before  I  knew  you."" 

'  You  did  tell  me,"  said  Sophy.  '  Do  you  think  I  did 
not  understand  what  kept  you  silent  these  three  years  ? 
I  always  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  did  not  mind — much,"* 

It  was  borne  in  on  the  mind  of  Sophy's  papa,  as  he 
entered  the  Lime  Walk  at  that  moment,  that  he  was  too 
late  to  make  any  new  observations  about  the  intermarry- 
ing of  cousins. 


LONG  LIVE  THE  KING  53 


[1890] 

THE  KING  IS  DEAD,  LONG  LIVE  THE  KING^ 

It  was  not  very  quiet  in  the  room  where  the  king  lay 
dying.  People  were  coming  and  going,  rustling  in  and 
out  with  hushed  footsteps,  whispering  eagerly  to  each 
other ;  and  where  a  great  many  people  are  all  busy 
making  as  little  noise  as  possible,  the  result  is  apt  to 
be  a  kind  of  bustle,  that  weakened  nerves  can  scarcely 
endure. 

But  what  did  that  matter.?  The  doctors  said  he 
could  hear  nothing  now.  He  gave  no  sign  that  he 
could.  Surely  the  sobs  of  his  beautiful  young  wife,  as 
she  knelt  by  the  bedside,  must  else  have  moved  him. 

For  days  the  light  had  been  carefully  shaded.  Now, 
in  the  hurry,  confusion,  and  distress,  no  one  remembered 
to  draw  the  curtains  close,  so  that  the  dim  eyes  might 
not  be  dazzled.  But  what  did  that  matter  ?  The  doctors 
said  he  could  see  nothing  now. 

For  days  no  one  but  his  attendants  had  been  allowed 
to  come  near  him.  Now  the  room  was  free  for  all  who 
chose  to  enter.  What  did  it  matter  ?  The  doctors  said 
he  knew  no  one. 

So  he  lay  for  a  long  time,  one  hand  flung  out  upon  the 
counterpane,  as  if  in  search  of  something.  The  queen 
took  it  softly  in  hers,  but  there  was  no  answering  pressure. 
^  From  /^are  Bits,  September  1890. 


54  STORIES 

At  length  the  eyes  and  mouth  closed,  and  the  heart  ceased 
to  beat. 

'  How  beautiful  he  looks,'  they  whispered  one  to 
another. 

When  the  king  came  to  himself  it  was  all  very  still — 
wonderfully  and  delightfully  still,  as  he  thought,  wonder- 
fully and  delightfully  dark.  It  was  a  strange,  unspeakable 
relief  to  him — he  lay  as  if  in  heaven.  The  room  was 
full  of  the  scent  of  flowers,  and  the  cool  night  air 
came  pleasantly  through  an  open  window.  A  row  of 
wax  tapers  burned  with  soft  radiance  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  on  which  he  was  lying,  covered  with  a  velvet  pall, 
only  his  head  and  face  exposed.  Four  or  five  men  were 
keeping  guard  around  him,  but  they  had  fallen  fast  asleep. 

So  deep  was  the  feeling  of  content  which  he  experienced 
that  he  was  loth  to  stir.  Not  till  the  great  clock  of  the 
palace  struck  eleven,  did  he  so  much  as  move.  Then  he 
sat  up  with  a  light  laugh. 

He  remembered  how,  when  his  mind  was  failing  him, 
and  he  had  rallied  all  his  powers  in  one  last  passionate 
appeal  against  the  injustice  which  was  taking  him  away 
from  the  world  just  when  the  world  most  needed  him,  he 
had  heard  a  voice  saying, '  I  will  give  thee  yet  one  hour 
after  death.  If,  in  that  time,  thou  canst  find  three  that 
desire  thy  life,  live  ! ' 

This  was  his  hour,  his  hour  that  he  had  snatched 
away  from  death.  How  much  of  it  had  he  lost 
already  ?  He  had  been  a  good  king ;  he  had  worked 
night  and  day  for  his  subjects;  he  had  nothing  to  fear, 
and  he  knew  that  it  was  very  pleasant  to  live,  how 
pleasant  he  had  never  known  before,  for,  to  do  him 
justice,  he   was  not  selfish ;  it  was  his   unfinished   work 


LONG  I.TVE  THE  KING  55 

that  he  grieved  about  when  the  decree  went  forth 
against  him.  Yet,  as  he  passed  out  of  the  room  where 
the  watchers  sat  heavily  sleeping,  things  were  changed 
to  him  somehow.  The  burning  sense  of  injustice  was 
gone.  Now  that  he  came  to  think  of  it,  he  had  done 
very  little.  True  that  it  was  his  utmost,  but  there  were 
many  better  men  in  the  world,  and  the  world  was  large, 
very  large  it  seemed  to  him  now.  Everything  had  grown 
larger.  He  loved  his  country  and  his  home  as  well  as 
ever,  but  in  the  night  it  had  seemed  as  if  they  must 
perish  with  him,  and  now  he  knew  that  they  were  still 
unchanged. 

Outside  the  door  he  paused  a  moment,  hesitating 
whither  to  go  first.  Not  to  the  queen.  The  very 
thought  of  her  grief  unnerved  him.  He  would  not  see 
her  till  he  could  once  more  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  and 
bid  her  weep  tears  of  joy  only  because  he  was  come 
again.  After  all,  he  had  but  an  hour  to  wait.  Before 
the  castle  clock  struck  twelve,  he  would  be  back  again 
in  life,  remembering  these  things  only  as  a  dream.  He 
sighed  a  little  to  think  of  it. 

'  All  that  to  do  over  again  some  day,'  he  said,  as  he 
recalled  his  last  moments. 

Almost  he  turned  again  to  the  couch  he  had  so  lately 
left. 

'  But  I  have  never  yet  done  anything  through  fear,' 
said  the  king. 

And  he  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  terms  of  the 
compact.     His  city  lay  before  him  in  the  moonlight. 

'  I  could  find  three  thousand  as  easily  as  three,'  he 
said.     '  Are  they  not  all  my  friends  ? ' 

As  he  passed  out  of  the  gate,  he  saw  a  child  sitting  on 
the  steps,  crying  bitterly. 


56  STORIES 

'  What  is  the  matter,  little  one  ? '  said  tlie  sentinel  on 
guard,  stopping  a  moment. 

'  Father  and  mother  have  gone  to  the  castle,  because 
the  king's  dead,'  sobbed  the  child,  'and  they've  never 
come  back  again ;  and  I  'm  so  tired  and  so  hungry ! 
And  I've  had  no  supper,  and  my  doll's  broken.  Oh! 
I  do  wish  the  king  were  alive  again  ! ' 

And  she  burst  into  a  fresh  storm  of  weeping.  It 
amused  the  king  not  a  little. 

'So  this  is  the  first  of  my  subjects  that  wants  me 
back  ! '  he  said. 

He  had  no  child  of  his  own.  He  would  have  liked  to 
try  and  comfort  the  little  maiden,  but  there  were  other 
calls  upon  him  just  then.  He  was  on  his  way  to  the 
house  of  his  great  friend,  the  man  whom  he  loved  more 
than  all  others.  A  kind  of  malicious  delight  possessed 
him,  as  he  pictured  to  himself  the  deep  dejection  he 
should  find  him  in. 

'  Poor  Amyas  ! '  he  said.  '  I  know  what  I  should  be 
feeling  in  his  place.  I  am  glad  he  was  not  taken.  I 
could  not  have  borne  his  loss.' 

As  he  entered  the  courtyard  of  his  friend's  house, 
lights  were  being  carried  to  and  fro,  horses  were  being 
saddled,  an  air  of  bustle  and  excitement  pervaded  the 
place.  Look  where  he  might,  he  could  not  see  the  face 
he  knew  so  well.  He  entered  at  the  open  door.  His 
friend  was  not  in  the  hall.  Room  after  room  he  vainly 
traversed — they  were  all  empty.  A  sudden  horror  took 
him.     Surely  Amyas  was  not  dead  of  grief? 

He  came  at  length  to  a  small  private  apartment,  in 
which  they  had  spent  many  a  happy,  busy  hour  together ; 
but  his  friend  was  not  here  either,  though,  to  judge  by 
appearances,  he  could  only  just  have  left  it.     Rooks  and 


LONG  LIVE  THE  KING  57 

papers  were  tumbled  all  about  in  strange  confusion,  and 
bits  of  broken  glass  strewed  the  floor. 

A  little  picture  was  lying  on  the  ground.  The  king 
picked  it  up,  and  recognised  a  miniature  of  himself,  the 
frame  of  which  had  been  broken  in  the  fall.  He  let  it 
drop  again,  as  if  it  had  burnt  him.  The  fire  was  blazing 
brightly,  and  the  fragments  of  a  half-destroyed  letter 
lay,  unconsumed  as  yet,  in  the  fender.  It  was  in  his 
own  writing.  He  snatched  it  up,  and  saw  it  was  the 
last  he  had  written,  containing  the  details  of  an  elaborate 
scheme  which  he  had  much  at  heart.  He  had  only  just 
thrown  it  back  into  the  flames  when  two  people  entered 
the  room,  talking  together,  one  a  lady,  the  other  a  man, 
booted  and  spurred  as  though  he  came  from  a  long 
distance. 

'  Where  is  Amyas  ?''  he  asked. 

'  Gone  to  proff'er  his  services  to  the  new  king,  of  course,' 
said  the  lady.  '  We  are,  as  you  may  think,  in  great 
anxiety.  He  has  none  of  the  ridiculous  notions  of  his 
predecessor,  who,  indeed,  hated  him  cordially.  The  very 
favour  Amyas  has  hitherto  enjoyed  will  stand  in  his  way 
at  the  new  court.  I  only  hope  he  may  be  in  time  to 
make  his  peace.  He  can,  with  truth,  say  that  he  utterly 
disapproved  of  the  foolish  reforms  which  his  late  master 
was  bent  on  making.  Of  course,  he  was  fond  of  him  in  a 
way  ;  but  we  must  think  of  ourselves,  you  know.  People 
in  our  position  have  no  time  for  sentiment.  He  started 
almost  immediately  after  the  king's  death.  I  am  sending 
his  retinue  after  him.' 

'  Quite  right,'  said  the  gentleman,  whom  the  king 
now  knew  as  one  of  his  ambassadors.  '  I  shall  follow 
him  at  once.  Between  you  and  me,  it  is  no  bad  thing 
for  the  country.     That  poor  boy  had  no  notion  of  states- 


58  STORIES 

manship.  He  forced  me  to  conclude  a  peace  which 
would  have  been  disastrous  to  all  our  best  interests. 
Happily,  we  shall  have  war  directly  now.  Promotions 
in  the  army  would  have  been  at  a  standstill  if  he  had 
had  his  way.' 

The  king  did  not  stay  to  hear  more. 

'  I  will  go  to  my  people,'  he  said.  '  They  at  least 
have  no  interest  to  make  peace  with  my  successor.  He 
will  but  take  from  them  what  I  gave."' 

He  heard  the  clock  strike  the  first  quarter  as  he  went. 
He  was,  indeed,  a  very  remarkable  king,  for  he  knew 
his  way  to  the  poorest  part  of  his  dominions.  He  had 
been  there  before,  often  and  often,  unknown  to  any  one ; 
and  the  misery  which  he  had  there  beheld  had  stirred  and 
steeled  him  to  attempt  what  had  never  before  been 
attempted. 

No  one  about  the  palace  knew  where  he  had  caught 
the  malignant  fever  which  carried  him  off.  He  had  a 
shrewd  suspicion  himself,  and  he  went  straight  to  that 
quarter. 

'Fevers  won't  hurt  me  now,'  he  said  laughing.  The 
houses  were  as  wretched,  the  people  looked  as  sickly  and 
squalid  as  ever.  They  were  standing  about  in  knots  in 
the  streets,  late  though  it  was,  talking  together  about 
him.  His  name  was  in  every  mouth.  The  details  of  his 
illness,  and  the  probable  day  of  his  funeral,  seemed  to 
interest  them  more  than  anything  else. 

Five  or  six  men  were  sitting  drinking  round  a  table  in 
a  disreputable-looking  public-house,  and  he  stopped  to 
overhear  their  conversation. 

'  And  a  good  riddance,  too  ! '  said  one  of  them,  whom 
he  knew  well.  '  What 's  the  use  of  a  king  as  never  spends 
a  farthing  more  than  he  can  help  ?     It  gives  no  impetus 


LONG  LIVE  THE  KING  59 

to  trade,  it  don't.  The  new  fellow's  a  very  different 
sort.     We  shall  have  fine  doings  soon.' 

'  Ay  ! '  struck  in  another,  '  a  meddlesome,  priggish  sort 
of  chap,  he  was,  always  aworritting  us  about  clean  houses, 
and  such  like.  What  right 's  he  got  to  interfere,  I  'd  like 
to  know  ? ' 

'  Down  with  all  kings  !  says  I,'  put  in  a  third  ;  '  but  if 
we're  to  have  'em,  let  'em  behave  as  sich.  I  like  a  young 
fellow  as  isn't  afraid  of  his  missus,  and  knows  port  wine 
from  sherry.' 

'  Wanted  to  abolish  capital  punishment,  he  did  ! '  cried 
a  fourth.  '  Thought  he  'd  get  more  work  out  of  the 
poor  fellows  in  prison,  I  suppose  ?  Depend  on  it,  there 's 
some  reason  like  that  at  the  bottom  of  it.  We  ain't  so 
very  perticular  about  the  lives  of  our  subjects  for  nothing, 
we  ain't ' ;  an  expression  of  opinion  in  which  all  the  rest 
heartily  concurred.  The  clock  struck  again  as  the  king 
turned  away  ;  he  felt  as  if  a  storm  of  abuse  from  some  one 
he  had  always  hated  would  be  a  precious  balm  just  then. 
He  entered  the  state  prison,  and  made  for  the  condemned 
cell.  Capital  punishment  was  not  abolished  yet,  and  in 
this  particular  instance  he  had  certainly  felt  glad  of  it. 

The  cell  was  tenanted  only  by  a  little  haggard-looking 
man,  who  was  writing  busily  on  his  knee.  The  king  had 
only  seen  him  once  before,  and  he  looked  at  him 
curiously. 

Presently  the  gaoler  entered,  and  with  him  tiie  first 
councillor,  a  man  whom  his  late  master  had  greatly  loved 
and  esteemed.     The  convict  looked  up  quickly. 

'  It  was  not  to  be  till  to-morrow,'  he  said.  Then,  as  if 
afraid  he  had  betrayed  some  cowardice,  '  but  I  am  ready 
at  any  moment.  May  I  ask  you  to  give  this  paper  to  my 
wife  ? ' 


60  STORIES 

'  The  king  is  dead,'  said  the  first  councillor  gravely. 
'  You  are  reprieved.  His  present  majesty  has  other  views. 
You  will,  in  all  probability,  be  set  at  large  to-morrow.'' 

'  Dead  ? '  said  the  man  with  a  stunned  look. 

'  Dead  ! '  said  the  first  councillor,  with  the  impressive- 
ness  of  a  whole  board. 

The  man  stood  up,  passing  his  hand  across  his 
brow. 

'  Sir,'  he  said  earnestly,  '  I  respected  him.  For  all  he 
was  a  king,  he  treated  me  like  a  gentleman.  He,  too, 
had  a  young  wife.  Poor  fellow,  I  wish  he  were  alive 
again  ! "" 

There  were  tears  in  the  man's  eyes  as  he  spoke. 

The  third  quarter  struck  as  the  king  left  the  prison. 
He  felt  unutterably  humiliated.  The  pity  of  his  foe  was 
harder  to  bear  than  the  scorn  of  his  friends.  He  would 
rather  have  died  a  thousand  deaths  than  owe  his  life  to 
such  a  man.  And  yet,  because  he  was  himself  noble,  he 
could  not  but  rejoice  to  find  nobility  in  another.  He 
said  to  himself  sternly  that  it  was  not  worth  what  he  had 
gone  through.  He  reviewed  his  position  in  no  very  self- 
complacent  mood.  The  affection  he  had  so  confidently 
relied  upon  was  but  a  dream.  The  people  he  was  fain  to 
work  for  were  not  ripe  for  their  own  improvement,  A 
foolish  little  child,  a  generous  enemy,  these  were  his  only 
friends.  After  all,  was  it  worth  while  to  live  ?  Had  he 
not  better  go  back  quietly  and  submit,  making  no  further 
effort  ?  He  had  learnt  his  lesson  ;  he  could  '  lie  down  in 
peace,  and  sleep,  and  take  his  rest.'  The  eternal  powers 
had  justified  themselves.  What  matter  though  every 
man  had  proved  a  liar  ?  The  bitterness  had  passed  away, 
and  he  seemed  to  see  clearly. 

Thick  clouds  had  gathered  over  the  moon,  and  the  cold 


LONG  LIVE  THE  KING  61 

struck  through  him.  All  at  oucc  a  sense  of  loneliness 
that  cannot  be  described  rushed  over  him,  and  his  heart 
sank.  Was  there  really  no  one  who  cared — no  one.^ 
He  would  have  given  anything  at  that  moment  for  a  look, 
a  single  word  of  real  sympathy.  He  longed  with  sick 
longing  for  the  assurance  of  love. 

There  were  yet  a  few  moments  left.  How  had  he 
borne  to  wait  so  long  ?  This,  at  least,  he  was  sure  of, 
and  this  was  all  the  world  to  him.  He  began  to  find 
comfort  and  consolation  in  the  thought ;  he  forgave — in- 
deed he  almost  forgot — the  rest.  Yet  he  had  fallen  very 
low,  for,  as  he  stood  at  the  door  of  his  wife's  room,  he 
hesitated  whether  to  go  in.  What  if  this,  too,  were  an 
illusion  ?     Had  he  not  best  go  back  before  he  knew  ? 

'  But  I  have  never  yet  done  anything  through  fear,' 
said  the  king. 

His  wife  was  sitting  by  the  fire  alone,  her  face  hidden, 
her  long  hair  falling  round  her  like  a  veil.  At  the  first 
sight  of  her,  a  pang  of  self-reproach  shot  through  him. 
How  could  he  ever  have  doubted  ? 

She  was  wearing  a  ring  that  he  had  given  her — a  ring 
she  wore  always,  and  the  light  sparkled  and  flashed  from 
the  jewel.  Except  for  this,  there  was  nothing  bright  in 
the  room. 

He  ardently  desired  to  comfort  her.  He  wondered 
why  all  her  ladies  had  left  her.  Surely  one  might  have 
stayed  with  her  on  this  first  night  of  her  bereavement  ? 
She  seemed  to  be  lost  in  thought.  If  she  would  only 
speak,  or  call  his  name  !     But  she  was  quite  silent. 

A  slight  noise  made  the  king  start.  A  secret  door  in 
the  wall  opened,  the  existence  of  which  he  had  thought 
was  known  only  to  himself  and  his  queen,  and  a  man 
stood  before  her. 


62  STORIES 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  lips,  as  though  to  counsel 
silence,  and  then  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

'  You  have  come,"*  she  said — '  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !  I  had 
to  hold  his  hand  when  he  was  dying.  I  was  frightened 
sitting  here  by  myself.  I  thought  his  ghost  would  come 
back,  but  he  will  never  come  back  any  more.  We  may 
be  happy  always  now,'  and  drawing  the  ring  from  her 
finger,  she  kissed  it,  weeping,  and  gave  it  to  him. 

When  midnight  struck,  the  watchers  wakened  with  a 
start,  to  find  the  king  lying  stark  and  stiff,  as  before,  but 
a  great  change  had  come  over  his  countenance. 

'  We  must  not  let  the  queen  see  him  again,""  they  said. 


THE  DEVIL  AT  THE  GUILDHALL         63 


THE  DEVIL  AT  THE  GUILDHALL 

A  fua(;ment 

'  I  DoxV  believe  in  him,''  said  a  girl. 

'  I  do,''  said  a  man. 

They  were  standing  at  the  Guildhall,  in  front  of 
Millais"'  picture  of  '  The  Enemy  sowing  Tares.'  The 
words  were  forced  from  them  by  the  overmastering 
power  which  a  work  of  art  exerts  over  certain  natures, 
the  tyrannical  convincingness  of  an  assertion  compelling 
instant  negation  or  consent.  To  each  the  other's  voice 
came  only  as  the  utterance  of  that  opposite  half  of  self 
which  speaks  in  the  deliberations  of  those  who  are  vividly 
conscious  of  the  process  of  thought  and  emotion, 

'  If  you  do  believe  in  him,"*  Althea  said,  using  the 
pronoun  as  she  often  used  it  when  talking  to  herself  for 
another  form  of  the  word  /,  '  what  becomes  of  the  power 
of  God  ? ' 

'  If  you  don''t  believe  in  it,  can  you  not  see  that  God 
is  not  God  alone,  but  the  devil  ? ' 

'  If  you  do  believe  in  him,"'  said  Althea  again,  '  you 
shrink  from  fathoming  the  depths  of  evil  in  yourself.' 

'If  you  don't  believe  in  it,  there  is  no  refuge  left  but 
suicide.' 

For  the  first  time  Althea,  conscious  that  a  discordant 
note  had  been  struck   in   this  curious  duet,  turned  her 


64  STORIES 

eyes  from  the  illustration  of  the  parable  to  look  at  her 
fellow-performer. 

Suicide. 

Her  quick  womanish  fancy  had  far  more  ghastly 
illustrations  before  it  in  a  moment.  She  was  obliged  to 
look  at  him  to  dispel  them. 

And  as  she  looked,  he  seemed  so  very  unlike  the 
central  figure  of  her  fancy,  drowning,  shooting,  stabbing, 
poisoning  itself,  that  she  could  not  restrain  a  smile,  and 
having  smiled,  she  quickly  blushed,  recollecting  who 
she  was,  what  she  had  said  and  where,  and  moved 
away. 

Nevertheless,  though  she  stood  long  before  '  The 
Wheel  of  Fortune,'  apparently  in  rapt  contemplation, 
what  she  saw  all  the  time  was  still  '  The  Enemy  sowing 
Tares,'  and  the  man  who  believed  in  it. 

Distance  does  more  than  lend  enchantment  to  the 
view.  At  a  few  feet  from  the  object  of  interest  it  is 
proper  to  indulge  in  observations  that  would  be  most 
improper  within  an  inch  of  him. 

There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room,  as  it  happened. 

The  object  of  interest  had  not  once  turned  his  eyes  on 
Althea;  they  were  still  fixed  in  a  long,  critical  stare. 
He  was  the  mildest  and  most  inoffensive-looking  of 
mortals,  dressed  with  that  prim  correctness  which  annoys 
the  feminine  mind  by  showing  too  much  of  the  sincerest 
form  of  flattery. 

'  As  neat  as  a  new  pin,'  flashed  through  her  brain. 

His  red  hair  made  it  yet  more  annoying;  red  hair, 
when  perfectly  smooth,  looks  aggressively  red.  He  held 
a  minute  magenta  pencil  in  his  hand,  with  which  he  was 
marking  his  catalogue.  She  hated  magenta.  With  the 
deliberateness  that  marked  most  of  his  actions,  he  made 


THE  DEVIL  AT  THE  GHH.DHALL         65 

two  small  crosses  on  either  side  of  the  name  of  the 
picture,  and  closed  the  list, 

'  It  is  like/  she  heard  him  mutter. 

And  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left  he 
stepped  cautiously  down  the  staircase — he  was  near- 
sighted evidently — and  passed  out  by  the  exit  from  the 
great  room  below. 

Althea  smiled  at  herself  for  watching  him,  though  she 
had  taken  her  notes  with  such  scrupulous  care  that  no 
one  watching  her  could  possibly  have  been  aware  of 
what  she  had  been  doing.  Then  she  returned  to  the 
study  of  the  picture  which  had  provoked  her  first 
comment. 

The  management  of  light  struck  her  imagination 
forcibly,  the  thick,  lurid  glow  across  the  sky,  and  on  the 
i-iver. 

'  The  light  that  is  in  it  is  darkness,"  she  said  to  herself. 
Also,  the  gleam  upon  the  evil  teeth.  *  Seeking  whom  he 
may  devour."" 

She  passed  beyond  the  sphere  of  quotation,  and 
became  absorbed  in  an  effort  to  realise  to  the  full  the 
intense  malignity  of  hands  and  feet,  of  face  and  form. 

'  What  a  picture  that  girl  is,"  said  a  young  man, 
entering  the  room,  to  a  lady  who  accompanied  him. 
'  Innocence  watching  the  Serpent.  Look  at  the  purity 
of  her  forehead.' 

*  You  men  are  very  unobservant,'  said  the  lady  in  low, 
sweet  tones  of  bell-like  resonance.  '  I  am  much  deceived 
in  that  face,  if  it  be  not  "something  better  than  innocent." 
At  any  rate,  it  expresses  the  innocence  of  pride  that 
will  not,  rather  than  of  guilelessness  that  cannot,  know 
anything  of  temptation.  Pride  is  stamped  upon  every 
feature.     Do  you   not  see  the  haughty   arching  of  the 


66  STORIES 

nose,  the  magnificence  of  the  brow,  the  stately  manner  in 
which  that  raven  hair  is  brushed  back,  and  will  not 
condescend  to  cover  so  much  as  the  hard  edge  of  it  with 
a  curl  ?  Her  very  pose  is  as  regal  as  if  she  were  a  queen, 
deciding  on  the  merits  or  demerits  of  her  prime  minister.' 

'  Speak  lower,  dear,'  he  said. 

The  warning  was  not  unneeded,  her  dulcet  tones  were 
far  more  penetrating  than  his  own  tolerably  loud  and 
cheerful  voice. 

But  Althea  was  not  listening ;  she  had  forgotten  her- 
self for  once.  A  strange  procession  passed  before  her. 
Devils  of  all  ages  and  descriptions,  he-devils  and  she- 
devils, — for  the  DeviPs  Grandmother  from  the  door  of 
Ratisbon  Cathedral  led  them  on — came  dancing,  skipping, 
leaping,  tumbling,  grinning,  helter-skelter  along  the 
floor.  They  scrambled  up  the  frame.  There  was  Blake's 
Devil  out  of  Job. 

'  Why  is  he  first  ? '  she  thought  confusedly — '  He 's 
not  the  oldest.' 

And  even  as  she  thought,  he  flung  himself  down  with 
a  grand  gesture  of  despair  and  vanished,  not  into  air, 
into  the  Enemy. 

The  others  hung  and  swung,  jeering  and  leering  at  her 
from  the  corners. 

The  fantastic  creatures  of  Orcagna,  Angelico,  Botti- 
celli were  there,  armed  with  their  little  prongs  and  forks, 
and  Dante's  devils  came,  and  those  that  Luther  fancied 
sitting  upon  the  roof  at  Worms.  After  them,  Milton's 
Lucifer  flashed  swift  as  black  lightning  at  noon  before 
her.     She  bowed  her  head  for  an  instant. 

When  she  looked  up  he  was  gone. 

Mephistopheles  stood  in  his  place,  and  grinned.  He 
vanished  also,  and  she  was  left  alone  with  the  Enemy. 


THE  DEVII.  AT  THE  GUH.DHALL         67 

'  All  gone/  she  said,  '  but  that  one  stays,  I  did  not 
know  he  was  so  many/ 

It  was  as  if  the  wickedness  of  many  generations  gleamed 
in  the  eyes  of  one, 

'  We  are  not  children  any  longer ;  grotesques  have  no 
terror  for  us.  We  are  not  Puritans  any  longer ;  we  don't 
think  pride  and  beauty  must  be  cast  into  the  Pit.  We 
are  not  poets  any  longer ;  we  don't  think  Pessimism  is 
revolt  against  God,  And  the  Devil  is  dead,  and  the 
Foul  Fiend,  and  Satan,  but  there  is  left  the  Enemy.  All 
gone,  but  that  one  stays,' 

The  stuff  of  which  those  words  are  made  passed  through 
her  mind  inarticulately, 

'  How  he  clutches  his  bag  of  seed !  If  I  had  not 
known,  I  should  have  thought  it  was  a  miser  hugging 
his  gold,' 

She  rose  and  went  her  way,  full  of  thought. 

But  when  she  reached  the  glass  doors,  and  the  umbrella 
stack,  she  paused.  The  prospect  out  of  doors  was  not 
encouraging  by  any  means.  All  the  pigeons  had  flown 
away.  The  sky  was  overclouded,  and  the  rain  had  begun. 
Worse  than  all  this,  she  discovered  that  she  had  put 
astray  the  little  bit  of  metal  entitling  her  to  claim  her 
own  umbrella. 

Now  Althea  is  a  person  compact  of  nervous  suscepti- 
bilities. The  state  of  the  weather  affects  her  almost  as 
much  as  the  toothache,  or  the  electric  light  in  a  certain 
house  that  she  knows.  She  is,  in  fact,  a  human  barometer, 
and  human  barometers  in  London  have  a  very  bad  time 
of  it,  inasmuch  as  Set  Fair  is  not  a  frequent  condition  of 
the  instrument. 

What  was  she  to  do  ?  How  was  she  to  get  back  that 
umbrella.^      Of  all    things,   she    hated    speaking   to  an 


68  STORIES 

official.  Nevertheless,  an  inward  conflict  took  place  in 
her.  If  she  lost  that  umbrella,  she  had  no  spare  cash  to 
invest  in  another. 

'  But  perhaps  the  man  will  not  believe  what  I  say. 
And  after  all,  I  can  send  my  grandfather  for  it  to-morrow. 
It  won't  matter  this  afternoon,' 

Much  as  she  disliked  going  without  it,  she  disliked 
making  an  appeal  for  it  even  more.  She  gazed  along  the 
dreary  street  as  piteously  as  if  she  were  a  cat  that 
objected  to  wetting  its  feet.  As  she  stood  hesitating, 
she  fancied  that  the  two  men  in  charge  were  looking  at 
her  and  wondering  why.  She  had  the  morbid  dislike  of 
some  unconventional  people  to  appear  to  be  engaged  in 
any  action,  no  matter  how  trifling,  that  is  not  perfectly 
conventional.  There  was  no  help  for  it.  Out  she  must 
go.     She  closed  the  door  at  once  behind  her. 

As  she  went  down  the  dripping  pavement,  she  stared, 
with  desperate  longing,  at  a  cab.  She  had  no  shillings 
to  fling  away,  and  this  is  not  an  age  when  beauty  in 
distress  appeals  to  the  heart  of  man.  Helen  herself 
would  have  to  pay  eighteenpence  to  get  across  Troy, 


Althea's  self-esteem  sank  lower  at  every  step.  Her 
skirt,  do  what  she  would  with  it,  was  becoming  draggled. 
Her  hat  was  spoiled.  Every  omnibus  going  in  the  direc- 
tion in  which  she  wished  to  go  was  crowded,  and  she 
could  not  breathe  in  a  crowd. 

Oh,  from  what  little  causes  great -effects  proceed  !  The 
fairy  fingers  of  a  child  may  fire  a  cannon  tliat  would  have 
made  old  Jupiter  quake  to  hear  his  thunder  outroared. 

Althea  was  netting  wet,  and  had  no  umbrella.     There- 


THE  DEML  AT  THE  GUILDHALL         69 

fore  she  cried  aloud  in  a  voice  of  wild,  Promethean  rebel- 
lion against  the  powers  that  be.  She  wanted  light,  she 
wanted  warmth  and  wealth  and  beauty  all  around,  she 
wanted  leisure  to  occupy  herself  with  herself,  she  wanted 
slaves  to  do  her  bidding,  and  to  do  it  silently.  In  every 
one  there  is.  counteracting  the  desire  for  self-preservation, 
an  innate  longing  for  the  poison  that  would  destroy,  and 
she  was  no  exception  to  tlie  rule.  Nor  did  she  strive  to 
quell  her  longing.  She  did  not  feel  the  comic  element 
in  it. 

The  seriousness  of  her  nature  sent  the  veriest  trifles 
down  to  the  depth  of  tragedy,  and  connected  them  with 
the  sternest  issues  of  life.  She  never  laughed  at  any- 
thing. Had  she  committed  murder,  had  she  been  dis- 
figured by  the  small-pox,  she  could  not  have  come  nearer 
despair.  The  gloom  of  her  mind  reacted  on  her  physi- 
cally, and  she  became  conscious  of  the  most  intense 
weariness. 

She  was  on  the  point  of  giving  up  her  purpose  and 
returning  home,  when  it  struck  her  with  the  force  of  an 
old  conviction  renewed  by  circumstance,  that  what  we  do 
not  do  to-day  we  must  inevitably  do  to-morrow.  She 
had  no  confidence  in  the  future,  nor  was  she  in  the  habit 
of  looking  to  it  to  help  her  out  of  the  present.  Rather 
she  dreaded  it  as  a  sort  of  Pharaoli  that  would  compel 
her,  if  she  did  not  now  make  bricks  with  straw,  presently 
to  make  bricks  without  it.  She  did  not  live  by  impulse, 
and  she  despised  those  who  could.  She  reckoned  with 
her  taskmaster  beforehand,  and  she  perceived  that  in  this 
instance,  if  she  did  not  work  at  once,  the  reckoning  would 
go  against  her.  So  she  set  her  face  resolutely,  in  spite  of 
rain  and  darkness,  towards  the  goal  she  had  in  view. 

It  was  not  driving  rain,  to  whip  and  sting  and  inform 


70  STORIES 

her  with  the  spirit  of  resistance  ;  it  was  the  heavy  lead- 
like fall  of  rain  when  there  is  thunder  in  the  distance. 
It  was  not  the  romantic  darkness  of  night  in  the  city, 
but  the  monotonous,  prosaic  soaking  out  of  colour  in  the 
day-time,  unrelieved  by  a  single  star  or  by  so  much  as  a 
jet  of  gas  in  the  streets. 

Althea's  impatience  of  the  intolerable  discomfort  of  it 
all  became  so  lively  that  she  could  not  have  struggled 
harder  with  another  person  in  opposition  than  she  did 
with  herself.  For  one  brief  second,  on  the  opposite  edge 
of  the  road,  from  a  turning  that  would  have  led  her 
home,  she  paused.  Then  she  quickened  her  pace,  and 
striking  down  into  a  side  street,  came,  after  a  few 
minutes.,  to  a  dingy  little  jeweller"'s  shop,  in  the  window 
of  which  a  few  old  coins  and  musty  silver  brooches  were 
displayed. 

Twice  she  walked  past  the  door,  and  could  not  make 
up  her  mind  to  enter  it,  but  the  third  time,  with  slow 
and  lingering  steps,  she  did  so. 

A  dwarfed  and  swarthy  man  sat  working  in  the 
window.  He  knew  that  she  had  passed.  He  had  an  eye 
for  beauty.  Each  time,  so  soon  as  she  had  gone  beyond 
him,  he  lifted  his  eyes,  letting  them  fall  again  directly 
she  turned  round.  It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  seen 
her.  The  instant  she  crossed  the  threshold,  he  became 
absorbed  in  his  work. 

A  mirror  hung  upon  the  wall  in  front  of  him,  and  he 
was  thus  enabled  to  watch  her  movements  without 
appearing  to  do  so. 

She  seated  herself  and  waited  quietly. 

He  took  no  notice  of  her. 

Becoming  impatient,  she  moved  her  chair,  so  that  it 
made  a  noise  upon  the  ground. 


THE  DEVIL  AT  THE  GUH^DHALL         71 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly  as  he  bent  still  lower 
over  the  diamond  ring  on  which  he  was  engaged. 

He  was  determined  to  hear  her  voice  before  he  moved, 
and  presently  he  heard  it. 

'  Is  Signor  Brunetti  at  home  ?     Can  I  speak  to  him  ?' 

Brunetti  rose  leisurely,  put  the  ring  into  a  box  with 
great  deliberation,  settled  the  nest  of  cotton  wool  round 
it,  unfastened  and  folded  up  the  apron  that  he  wore. 
Nervous  though  she  might  be,  Althca  was  not  altogether 
impatient ;  so  soon  as  she  felt  sure  that  she  had  arrested 
his  attention,  she  was  soothed  rather  than  irritated  by 
watching  these  manoeuvres.  As  he  came  opposite  her  on 
the  other  side  of  the  counter,  his  eyes  had  a  dull  gleam 
in  them  like  some  of  the  jewels  that  he  set. 

'  Giacomo  Brunetti  is  at  your  service,  Madam."" 

Spite  of  his  ugly  diminutive  form,  the  jeweller  spoke 
with  the  graceful  action  and  in  the  gracious  speech  of 
one  not  born  in  an  island  where  courtesy  is  held  to  be 
effeminate.  Insensibly  she  liked  his  deference.  She 
preferred  to  be  called  '  Madam  "*  because  it  had  a  more 
euphonious  echo  than  '  Miss."  Homage  delicate  enough 
not  to  offend  her  fastidiousness  was  always  grateful.  But 
she  was  too  much  taken  up  with  the  affair  in  hand  to 
care  about  prolonging  this  pleasure. 

'  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  here,'  she  said,  as  she  glanced 
furtively  at  the  window  looking  to  the  street.  '  Is  there 
no  private  room  ? ' 

'  Madam  does  me  too  great  an  honour  in  condescending 
to  use  it." 

He  drew  aside  a  dusty,  red  portiirc  at  the  other  end  of 
the  shop,  and  opened  a  door  behind. 

As  she  paused  on  the  threshold,  she  was  struck  with 
a  sound  as  of  tiny  aerial    hammers,  smiting  the  air  all 


72  STORIES 

round  her.  It  was  only  the  ticking  of  fifty  or  sixty 
clocks,  clocks  of  all  sizes,  shapes,  and  periods,  that 
covered  walls  and  floor.  An  eight-day  clock  stood  in 
one  corner ;  over  the  face  of  it  there  was  engraved  in 
brass  the  legend  iempiis  fngit.  Fir  cones  swung  to  and 
fro  in  soft  and  even  undulation.  Hobgoblins  were  cling- 
ing to  the  end  of  golden  chains,  their  ruddy  cheeks  under 
their  peaked  red  heads  puffed  out  with  these  perpetual 
gymnastics.  A  cuckoo  opened  the  door  of  the  wooden 
cottage  wherein  he  liyed,  and  called  the  quarter  just 
above  her  head ;  a  silvery  chime  rang  from  a  silvery 
tower ;  a  trumpeter  in  scarlet  walked  out  of  a  castle 
gate,  and,  blowing  one  blast  of  shrill,  cock-like  defiance, 
straightway  retreated  ;  two  giants,  about  the  height  of  a 
finger,  struck  Avith  their  clubs  the  bell  of  a  cathedral 
built  for  fairies. 

She  could  not  help  smiling. 

'  What  is  that?'  she  said,  taking  the  seat  he  placed 
for  her  beside  a  table  near  the  door,  in  the  centre  of 
which  stood  a  specimen  of  goldsmith's  work,  the  dainty 
form  of  which  was  obvious  even  to  eyes  so  inexperienced 
as  hers. 

The  goldsmith  shrugged  his  shoulders.  '  You  are 
pleased  .? ' 

'  I  have  never  seen  anything  more  beautiful.  But  I  do 
not  understand  the  design." 

Brunetti  laughed  noiselessly. 

'  It  is  but  an  imitation.  And  yet  in  some  sort  it  comes 
straight  from  the  hands  of  the  great  master  of  our  craft 
and  of  other  crafts  besides  ours.  It-  is  of  the  same  age. 
Let  him  describe  it  in  his  own  words.' 

So  saying,  Brunetti  unlocked  a  drawer  in  the  table, 
and  took  out  a  silver  casket,  richly  chased  with  Cupids. 


THE  DEVIL  AT  THE  GUILDHALL         73 

\Vitliiii  it  lay  a  book  bound  in  ivory,  with  a  carbuncle  at 
each  of  the  four  corners.  The  restless  light  in  the  stones 
flashed  hither  and  thither  as  he  held  it.  It  seemed  to 
open  of  itself  at  the  place  that  he  wanted,  for  he  began 
to  read  aloud  at  once.  '  Agreeable  to  the  account  already 
given  of  the  model,  I  had  represented  the  sea  and  the 
earth  both  in  a  sitting  posture,  the  legs  of  one  placed 
between  those  of  the  other,  as  certain  arms  of  the  sea 
enter  the  land,  and  certain  necks  of  the  land  jut  out  into 
the  sea.  The  mannei-  in  which  I  designed  them  was  as 
follows :  I  put  a  trident  into  the  right  hand  of  the 
figui'e  that  represented  the  sea,  and  in  the  left  a  bark  of 
exquisite  workmanship,  which  was  to  hold  the  salt ;  under 
this  figure  were  its  four  sea-horses,  the  form  of  which  in 
the  breast  and  forefeet  resembled  that  of  a  horse,  and  all 
the  hind  part  from  the  middle  that  of  a  fish  ;  the  fishes' 
tails  were  entwined  Avith  each  other  in  a  manner  very 
pleasing  to  the  eye,  and  the  whole  group  was  placed  in  a 
striking  attitude.  This  figure  was  surrounded  by  a 
variety  of  fishes  of  different  species  and  other  sea  animals. 
The  undulation  of  the  water  was  properly  exhibited,  and 
likewise  enamelled  with  its  true  colours.  The  earth  I 
represented  by  a  beautiful  female  figure  holding  a  cornu- 
copia in  her  hand,  entirely  naked,  like  the  male  figure ; 
in  her  left  hand  she  held  a  little  temple,  the  architecture 
of  the  Ionic  order  and  the  workmanship  very  nice  ;  this 
was  intended  to  put  the  pepper  in.  Under  this  female 
figure  I  exhibited  most  of  the  forest  animals  which  the 
earth  produces,  and  the  rocks  I  partly  enamelled  and 
partly  left  in  gold.  I  then  fixed  the  work  on  a  base  of 
black  ebony  of  a  proper  thickness  ;  and  then  I  placed 
four  golden  figures  in  more  than  mezzo-relievo ;  these 
were  intended  to  represent  Morning,  Noon,  Evening,  and 


74  STORIES 

Night.  There  were  also  four  other  figures  of  the  four 
principal  winds,  of  the  same  size,  the  workmanship  and 
enamel  of  which  were  elegant  to  the  last  degree."* 

Brunetti  turned  back  to  the  title-page,  and  showed 
Althea  the  portrait  of  Benvenuto  Cellini. 

There  was  something  inexpressibly  congenial  to  her  in 
the  mobile,  mischievous  face  of  the  artist,  as  he  looked 
back  over  his  shoulder  out  of  the  wild  age  of  the  Renais- 
sance, out  of  those  fathomless  depths  of  humanity  which, 
to  us,  appear  almost  inhuman.  She  drew  the  salt-cellar 
towards  her,  and  let  her  fingers  rest  upon  the  head  of 
Night.  She  was  in  touch  with  all  the  brilliant  Court 
that  once  had  sat  at  table  and  applauded.  She  saw  the 
King,  magnificent  and  debonnair,  the  splendid  Lords  and 
Ladies  in  bright  apparel.  She  revelled  in  the  new  fancy- 
ing of  the  boundless  luxury  and  pride  that  could  employ 
the  foremost  genius  of  its  time  to  design  its  meanest 
utensils. 

'  Delightful  ! '  she  said  involuntarily. 

'  And  yet  the  man  was  a  perfect  devil,"*  observed 
Brunetti. 

She  shrank  at  the  sound  of  the  word. 

Again,  as  he  glanced  up  at  her,  those  eyes  flashed  the 
hard  gleaming  of  a  gem.  She  wished  she  had  not  left 
the  shop.  The  thought  recalled  to  her  the  business  about 
which  she  had  come.  She  unclasped  a  bracelet  that  she 
was  wearing  and  held  it  towards  him. 

'  I  want  to  dispose  of  that,"  she  said  shortly.  '  How 
much  would  you  give  me  for  it  ? ' 

He  took  the  bracelet  in  his  hand,  and  examined  it 
closely.  It  was  made  of  gold,  where  the  band  was 
broadest  four  stones  were  set — an  emerald,  a  ruby,  an 
opal,  a  sapphire. 


THE  DEVIL  AT  THE  GUILDHALE         75 

'  I  have  been  told  they  make  a  word,"'  .she  said,  '  but  I 
do  not  know  what  it  is/ 

'An  r,  an  r,  an  o,  an  ,v,  the  word  is  "E/ja)?,""^  lie  said 
promptly. 

'  What  does  that  mean  ?' 

'  I  cannot  tell  you.' 

Again  she  did  not  like  his  manner. 

'  You  knew  the  word,'  she  said. 

'It  is  often  given  us  to  engrave,  but  we  are  poor, 
unlearned  artisans.  The  letter  of  it  for  us,  the  spirit 
for  those  we  serve  ! ' 

'  How  much  is  it  worth  ? '  she  repeated. 

'  Nothing  at  all.' 

'  You  will  not  take  it  then  ? '  she  spoke  with  some 
eagerness. 

He  touched  the  stones  one  by  one  thoughtfully,  and 
seemed  to  pause. 

'The  stones  are  not  of  any  value.  All  I  can  do  is  to 
weigh  it  and  give  you  the  worth  of  the  gold  which  I 
could  melt  and  use.' 

'  Weigh  it ! '  she  said,  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

He  fetched  a  pair  of  scales,  and  did  so  cautiously  twice 
over. 

'  I  will  allow  you  £5  for  this  bracelet  just  as  it  is.' 

She  was  disappointed  but  would  not  show  it.  '  Madam 
desires  to  exchange  it  for  some  other  ornament,  doubt- 
less ?'  he  inquired. 

'  I  do  not  want  to  exchange  the  bracelet  for  another.  I 
want  the  money.' 

'  In  that  case  I  regret  to  be  obliged  to  tell  Madam  that 
I  can  only  have  the  pleasure  of  offering  her  four  pound 
ten  shillings.' 

'  Love. 


76  STORIES 

'  Very  well.     Give  me  the  money  at  once.'' 

The  goldsmith  appeared  surprised.  He  crossed  to  the 
other  side  of  the  apartment,  and  turning  his  back  on  her, 
opened  a  tall  desk  that  stood  in  one  corner,  and  began  to 
rummage  among  the  contents. 

'  The  room  is  very  hot,'  she  said  to  herself,  and  rising 
noiselessly,  she  set  the  door  half  open,  returning  to  her 
seat  with  stealthy,  fast  steps  so  that  Brunetti  did  not 
perceive  she  had  stirred. 

Some  one  else  did,  however. 

This  was  a  young  man  who  had  entered  the  shop  a 
few  minutes  before,  and  was  waiting  until  such  time 
as  the  master  of  it  should  reveal  himself.  The  sudden 
opening  of  the  door,  as  he  leant  over  the  counter 
examining  some  trinket  he  had  a  mind  to  buy,  shot  through 
a  ray  of  sunshine  that  startled  him.  Following  the  ray 
in  its  passage,  his  eyes  fell  on  the  mirror,  and  there  he 
saw  reflected  the  girl  wliom  he  had  only  a  short  time  since 
admired  at  the  Guildhall. 

The  rain  had  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  began,  and  the 
poignant  light  of  the  sun,  when  it  is  nearing  the  West, 
smote  straight  upon  her.  She  appeared  to  him  like  the 
pale,  resplendent  vision  of  warfare.  Her  shadowy  hair 
was  yet  more  beautiful  against  the  crimson  wings  of  cloud 
behind.  Her  deep  eyes  caused  to  glow  in  him  the  high 
enthusiasm  of  one  who  sees  in  strife  only  the  making  of 
victory.  Quickly  she  fastened  the  bracelet  upon  her 
slender  wrist,  and  raised  it  reverently,  as  it  were,  to  her 
lips ;  more  quickly  still  she  unclasped  it  and  laid  it  on 
the  table  before  her. 

The  master  of  the  shop  returned,  and  counted  down 
some  money.  The  young  man  waiting  was  offended. 
Between  deformity  and  beauty  what  a  strange  link  was 


THE  DEVIL  AT  THE  GUILDHALL         77 

this !  Nevertheless  he  watched  the  mirror  with  unfailing 
interest.  The  girl  dropped  the  money,  coin  by  coin,  into 
her  purse,  and  rose  to  go.  As  she  did  so,  the  man  spoke, 
clutching  his  bargain. 

*  Vou  have  bought  the  knowledge.  Shall  I  tell  you  the 
meaning  of  the  word  now  ? ' 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm. 

Perhaps  the  spectator  of  the  scene  could  hardly  have 
explained  to  any  one  why  this  action  sent  through  him  a 
shudder  of  disgust. 

'  Hullo  ! '  he  shouted.     '  Is  anybody  coming .'' ' 

The  vision  broke  and  fled  on  either  side  of  the  mirror. 

Althea  swept  past  him,  the  faintest  flush  upon  her 
cheek. 

The  little  goldsmith  stood  behind  the  counter,  and 
made  a  courteous  gesture  of  the  head  that  would  not 
have  misbecome  a  noble. 

'  Give  me  the  bracelet  that  lady  sold  to  you,'  he  said 
impetuously. 

'  What  bracelet  ? '  asked  the  goldsmith,  feigning 
astonishment. 

'The  bracelet  that  is  lying  on  the  table  in  there." 

He  pointed  to  the  door. 

'  My  kind  patron  is  in  this  instance  mistaken.  I  did 
not  buy  it  from  the  lady.  It  is  a  very  valuable  piece 
of  work.  I  was  but  showing  her  a  detail  of  the  con- 
struction if,  for  one  moment,  the  gentleman  will  permit 
me.' 

He  sidled  towards  the  door,  but  his  interlocutor  was 
too  swift  for  him,  and  laid  hands  on  the  bracelet  before 
he  had  crossed  the  threshold. 

'There!'  said  he,  contemptuously  throwing  a  cheque 


78  STORIES 

already  signed  upon  the  counter.  '  Good  afternoon,  don't 
tell  more  lies  than  you  can  help  ! ' 

He  hurried  out  of  the  shop. 

The  goldsmith  looked  at  the  cheque,  saw  that  it  was 
one  for  a  hundred  pounds,  payable  at  Child's  Bank,  and 
chuckled.^ 

^  This  story  was  never  finished,  nor  is  there  any  clue  as  to  how  the 
author  meant  to  develop  it. 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  79 


[1898] 
THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  ' 

'  Not  for  a  moment,"'  said  the  Count,  with  great  dignity, 
'  did  I  suppose  so/ 

I  thanked  him. 

He  pressed  my  hand. 

There  followed  one  of  those  awkward  pauses  which 
are  apt  to  follow  on  a  supreme  moment.  He  had  just 
informed  me  that  he  did  not  for  an  instant  suppose  that 
I  preferred  any  consideration  before  honour.  The  wind 
was  driving  the  rain  against  my  window  as  if  it  were  a 
human  thing  that  must  be  chased  from  the  wide  world 
without.  The  flames  were  leaping  up  the  chimney,  as 
if  they  owned  some  kinship  with  the  wind  and  were 
rushing  to  meet  him.  I  wanted  to  be  alone,  to  enjoy 
the  uproar  in  peace.  How  to  get  rid  of  the  Count  I 
did  not  know.  Why  the  Count  insisted  on  staying, 
I  did  not  know.  As  he  was  going  to  shoot  me,  or  I  was 
going  to  shoot  him,  at  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  this  was  waste  of  time ;  but  you 
cannot  make  a  remark  of  that  kind  to  a  guest,  and  he 
happened  to  be  in  my  room. 

'  Let  me  ask  you  one  thing ! '  said  the  Count.  '  You 
are  a  generous  enemy.  Though  not  in  your  first  youth, 
you  are  younger  than  I  am,  and  you  have  not  been  out 
before.  I  would  not  take  you  at  a  disadvantage.  Do 
you  believe  in  the  soul's  future  ? 

1  From  T/ie  CornhilL  March  1898. 


80  STORIES 

•A  most  unnecessary  question,"  I  said  lightly.  'In 
a  few  hours  one  of  us  will  have  answered  it  for  good 
and  all/ 

He  frowned. 

'  You  do  not  believe  in  it.  I  am  reduced  to  a  most 
unpleasant  extremity.  Unless  you  can  reassure  me  upon 
this  point,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  fight  you.  Unless 
I  fight  you,  I  am  dishonoured.' 

'  Why  should  it  be  impossible  ? '  I  asked.  But  that 
the  Count  was  by  birth  and  breeding  a  perfect  gentle- 
man I  might  have  suspected  his  courage. 

*It  gives  me  an  unfair  advantage,'  lie  said,  gazing 
steadily  at  me  out  of  his  deep-set  eyes.  'You  fight, 
believing  death  is  death.  I  fight,  believing  death  is 
birth.  I  know  something  of  your  chivalrous  nature.  If 
I  kill  you,  I,  in  my  own  opinion,  set  free  a  soul.  If  you 
kill  me,  you,  in  your  own  opinion,  commit  murder.  I 
would  not  have  you  tortured  in  after  life  by  this  re- 
flection. Once  more  I  tell  you,  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  fight  unless  you  give  me  some  assurance.  Once  more 
I  ask  you.  Do  you  believe  in  eternal  life  ? ' 

'  I  am  fully  sensible  of  your  kind  consideration  for  my 
feelings,  but  permit  me  to  observe  that  I  do  not  see 
what  right  you  have  to  ask  that  question.' 

'  You  decline  to  answer  it  ? ' 

ado.' 

'Then  our  affair  is  settled.     I  also  decline  to  fight.' 

He  bowed,  and  walked  towards  the  door. 

'  Stay ! '  I  cried.     '  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? ' 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  a  pistol.  - 

'  No,'  I  said.     '  Why  ? ' 

'  You  leave  me  no  other  choice.' 

It  was  absurd  of  me  to  object  to  his  shooting  himself 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  8l 

when  I  had  no  objection  whatever  to  shooting  him  with 
my  own  hand  if  I  could.  But  it  was  just  this  one  phrase 
//  /  could  that  made  a  difference.  The  alternative  was 
too  cold-blooded;  I  felt  bound  to  prevent  it. 

'Could  it  not  be  arranged ?'    I   spoke  nervously, 

only  to  gain  time,  in  the  confusion  of  the  moment. 

'  You  are  not  the  man  I  took  you  for,'  he  said. 

This  time  he  did  not  bow  as  he  turned  towards  the 
door. 

'  You  do  not  seem  to  be  aware,'  I  remarked,  '  that  you 
are  exposing  me  to  a  sense  of  blood -guiltiness  far  more 
onerous  than  that  which  you  deprecate.  If  I  am  to 
be  a  minderer,  at  least  allow  me  to  feel  that  I  did  the 
deed  myself,  not  that  I  compelled  some  one  else  to  do  it. 
Do  you  think  tiiat  you  are  treating  me  fairly .?  You  put 
a  premium  upon  lies.  You  leave  no  other  course  open 
to  me.  By  all  that  is  held  most  sacred  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  believe  in  eternal  life.' 

And  rising,  I  laid  my  hand  upon  my  heart. 

'  Sir,'  said  the  Count  sternly,  '  would  you  die  with 
a  falsehood  on  your  lip  ?     You  do  not  believe  it .'' ' 

'  No,'  I  said,  '  I  do  not.  I  merely  wished  to  show  you 
to  what  extremes  you  are  driving  me.  But  you  are 
right.  Between  gentlemen  this  sort  of  thing  is  a  mistake, 
even  in  jest.  You  do  not  leave  this  room  till  you  have 
promised  to  fight  me  to-morrow ! '  and  I  threw  myself 
across  the  door.  I  was  the  younger  and  the  stronger 
man. 

With  perfect  gravity  the  Count  sat  down  in  an 
armchair.  The  wind  was  howling  more  loudly  than 
before ;  the  flames  had  sunk  lower. 

I  became  conscious  of  the  absurdity  of  the  situation. 
Nothing  short  of  flood,  fire,  or  earthquake  could  put  an 

!■■ 


82  STORIES 

end  to  it  in  a  fitting  manner.  There  we  were  bound  to 
stay  till  we  died  of  starvation,  unless  one  or  the  other 
would  compromise  his  dignity.  As  the  llittle  I  knew  of 
the  Count  made  me  feel  certain  that  nothing  would 
ever  induce  him  to  compromise  his,  I  compromised 
mine. 

*  Count,'  I  said,  '  this  is  a  ridiculous  position  for  both 
of  us.  ]\Iy  presence  causes  you  an  intolerable  gene^  and 
yours,  the  whole  night  through,  would  scarcely  be  agree- 
able to  me.  Let  us  consider  the  thing  dispassionately. 
You  will  not  fight  me  because  I  do  not  hold  an  opinion 
which  you,  rightly  or  wrongly,  hold  to  be  necessary  for 
my  future  happiness,  if  I  live ;  i.e.  you  do  not  object  to 
kill  me,  because  you  think  no  one  can  die,  but  you  do 
object  to  poison  the  remainder  of  my  mortal  existence. 
If  you  do  not  fight  me,  you  will  shoot  yourself,  for  you 
would  be  unable  to  survive  your  honour.  That  is  the 
case  on  your  side.  Now  for  mine.  I  have  an  instinctive 
dislike  of  suicide,  either  for  mvself  or  for  any  one  else 
whom  I  respect.  It  may  be  a  mere  prejudice,  but  so  it 
is.  If,  therefore,  you  blow  out  your  brains,  it  will 
seriously  affect  my  peace  of  mind,  inasmuch  as  I  shall 
consider  myself  to  a  certain  extent  responsible.  But 
fair  fight  is  another  thing  altogether.  It  is  now  five 
o'clock.  According  to  ovu*  agreement  we  meet  at  eight 
to-morrow  morning.  I  shall  need  at  least  five  hours"' 
sleep  beforehand,  or  I  shall  not  take  steady  aim.  Allow- 
ing full  time  to  dress,  breakfast,  and  get  to  the  rendez- 
vous^ I  ought  not  to  go  to  bed  later  than  two.  Between 
five  o'clock  this  evening  and  two  to-morrow  morning 
there  are  nine  hours.  Now,  these  nine  hours  I  will 
promise  you,  on  my  word  of  honour  as  a  gentleman, 
to  spend  on   the  investigation  of  a  question  that  does 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  83 

iu)t  iiiteixst  inc  in  the  least,  and  on  which,  but  for  you, 
I  should  never,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life,  have 
spent  nine  minutes — if  you,  on  your  part,  will  promise 
lo  meet  me  at  eight  to-morrow.  If,  by  that  time,  I  can 
answer  your  (|ucsti()n  in  the  affirmative — and  I  know 
already  that  it  is  not  by  words  alone  that  you  will  judge 
whether  I  speak  the  ti'uth — well  and  good !  Let  us 
light !  Whichever  way  the  duel  ends,  you  will  have  the 
satisfaction  of  thinking  that  I  have  gained  a  belief  which, 
but  for  you,  I  should  not  even  have  wished  to  gain.  If, 
on  the  contrary,  I  retain  my  present  scepticism,  we  will 
shoot  ourselves  instead  of  each  other.  Voila  tout!  It 
is  a  pity  :  the  country  will  lose  two  possible  defenders 
instead  of  one,  but  I  do  not  see  how  that  can  be  helpeil. 
Is  it  a  bond  ?     Will  you  meet  me  at  eight  ? 

The  Count  rose  from  his  chair  :  his  eyes  shone. 

'  I  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  accepting  yoiu-  gener- 
ous proposal,'  he  replied,  '  more  especially  as  I  am  (}uite 
convinced  that  no  one  could  study  this  question  for 
nine  hours  without  answering  it  as  I  myself  have  been 
taught  to  answer  it.  As  for  the  method  of  study,  that  of 
course  nuist  be  left  to  yourself.  The  "  Phaidon "  of 
Plato ' 

'  No,'  I  said  carelessly,  moving  away  from  the  door  to 
let  him  pass.  '  ]My  tastes  are  not  philosophical.  I  shall 
sit  by  the  fire  for  three  hours,  and  think  it  over  in  my 
own  way.  (I  dare  not  engage  that  my  mind  will  not 
wander  to  other  subjects.  La  Girouette  danced  adorably 
in  the  ballet  last  night.)  Then,  if  you  have  no  objection, 
I  shall  dine  out  and  go  to  a  ball,  the  invitation  for 
which  I  accepted  some  time  ago,  so  that  my  absence 
would  be  remarked  :  and,  when  the  clock  strikes  eleven, 
I     shall    betake    myself    to    my    confessor.      If  serious 


84  STORIES 

reflection,  if  the  sight  of  the  vanities  of  this  world,  if  the 
consolation  of  religion,  all  put  together,  cannot  persuade 
me  to  believe  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  it  will  be 
a  hopeless  affair  indeed ;  for  I  am  sure  nothing  else 
could/ 

The  Count  sighed, 

'  It  is  a  strange  way  to  take,"*  he  said  ;  '  but  let  no  man 
judge  for  another.  I  myself  was  led  to  believe  by  a 
series  of  events  which,  to  any  other  than  myself, 
would  appear  almost  incredible.  I  pray  that  you  may 
be  rightly  directed.  In  the  meantime  I  wish  you  good- 
night. I  shall  not  retire  to  rest  before  two  o'clock.' 
He  bowed  again  and  went  out. 

When  he  was  gone  I  threw  myself  down  in  the  chair 
which  he  had  occupied,  that  I  might  enjoy  to  the  full 
the  luxury  of  being  alone.  The  Count's  presence  had 
become  a  hideous  oppression  to  me  during  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour.  I  had  felt  as  if  he  would  never  go 
— as  if  he  were  a  nightmare,  as  if  he  were  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Sea,  as  if  he  were  a  whole  crowd  of  people  in 
himself,  and  made  the  room  stuffy.  I  ran  to  the  window 
and  flung  it  open  ;  the  wind  rushed  in  and  puffed  the 
curtains  out,  and  rioted  amongst  my  books  and  papers, 
bathing  me,  body  and  soul,  in  freedom.  I  heaped  up 
faggot  after  faggot,  and  stirred  them  into  a  blaze  that 
might  have  set  the  chimney  on  fire.  Then,  between 
wind  and  flame,  down  I  sat,  according  to  contract,  to 
consider  that  part  of  myself  which  was  more  subtle  than 
either. 

I  found  it  to  the  full  as  difficult  as  I  had  expected. 
The  old  arguments  were  no  newer.  '  We  should  like  to 
go  on  living  very  much.  Therefore  we  think  we  shall. 
But  as  we  really  do  not  know,  we  will  not  die  till  the 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  85 

last  possible  moment."  They  came  to  little  more  than 
that,  so  it  seemed.  As  I  was  without  this  strong  pre- 
possession in  favour  of  life,  I  failed  to  recognise  their 
cogency.  Besides,  to  have  that  man  going  on  for  ever  ? 
I  had  a  strong  prepossession  in  favour  of  his  extinction, 
even  if  it  necessarily  included  my  own.  I  loved  myself 
less  than  I  hated  him.  Not  that  I  had  any  reason  to 
hate  him.  He  was  everything  that  he  should  be,  which 
gave  a  sort  of  zest  to  my  abhorrence,  reduced  it  to  a  fine 
art — made  it  essential,  not  a  mere  accident.  Our 
natures  were  antagonistic.  I  could  have  forgiven  another 
for  murdering  me  more  easily  than  I  could  forgive  him 
the  fact  of  his  existence  in  the  same  universe  with 
myself.  He  jarred  upon  my  every  nerve.  My  eyes 
rebelled  at  the  sight  of  his  face,  my  ears  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  the  touch  of  his  hand  caused  an  electric  shiver 
of  repulsion.  He  annihilated  all  but  the  animal  part  of 
me  ;  when  he  was  in  the  room  I  knew  his  dog  had  more 
of  a  soul  than  I.  And,  by  the  strangest  freak  of  fancy, 
it  was  this  man  who,  more  than  any  one  I  ever  met,  had 
the  faculty  of  conjuring  anything  like  it  out  of  me,  who 
insisted  not  only  on  my  believing  it  was  there,  but  that 
it  woidd  go  on  being  there  for  ever  and  ever. 

'  No,  Count,'  I  said,  as  I  watched  the  sparks  go  up 
the  chimney;  'keep  your  immortality  to  yourself!  I 
would  not  share  it  with  you  for  the  asking,''  and  through 
my  mind  there  flashed  the  old  emblems  of  the  transitori- 
ness  of  life — the  dream,  the  shadow,  the  morning  mist, 
the  snowflake,  the  flower  of  the  grass,  the  bird  flving  out 
of  the  darkness,  through  the  lighted  hall,  into  the  dark- 
ness again.  I  was  reassured  concerning  its  momentary 
character.  '  And  yet,""  I  said  to  myself,  '  the  Count  has 
a  very  strong  will.     If  any  man  had  the  power  to  insist 


86  STORIES 

on  living,  in  defiance  of  all  the  rules  of  Nature,  that  man 
would  be  the  Count.  Perhaps  it  is  his  excessive  vitality 
which  is  burdensome  to  ephemeral  creatures  like  myself. 
It  is  as  if  he  absorbed  their  proper  part  whenever  he 
came  near  them." 

So  thinking,  I  took  out  my  pistols  and  cleaned  them, 
not  without  a  certain  pleasure.  I  had  had  enough  of  my 
own  society  by  the  time  the  clock  struck  eight,  and  was 
well  inclined  to  seek  that  of  others. 

The  dinner  to  which  I  was  invited  was  given  by 
Princess  X.,  who  lived  in  an  apartment  on  the  third  floor 
of  the  Hotel  Z.  She  was  going  to  a  dance  that  night — 
the  same  that  I  meant  to  attend — and  the  party  before- 
hand would  be,  she  informed  me,  quite  a  small  one, 
consisting  only  of  myself  and  a  few  intimates.  It  so 
happened  that  I  was  rather  late.  Seeing  the  door  of  the 
lift  open,  I  got  in.  The  darkness  had  prevented  me 
from  noticing  that  in  one  corner  there  was  already 
something  that  looked  like  a  downy  ball  of  white,  with 
a  very  small  head  coming  out  of  it.  I  would  fain  have 
beaten  a  retreat,  but  it  was  too  late ;  the  porter  stepped 
in  after  me  and  we  began  to  ascend. 

'Oh  ! '  said  the  little  lady,  with  a  gasp,  putting  out  a 
small  white  hand  to  catch  hold  of  me.  I  am  afraid 
that  I  did  not  attempt  to  reassure  her.  It  was  all  over 
in  a  minute. 

The  lift  stopped.  I  made  way  for  her  to  get  out. 
She  turned  round  to  me,  smiling  and  blushing. 

'I  beg  your  pardon,"*  she  said,  'I  never  have  been  in 
one  before.  It  is  so  unlike  anything  else — when  you  are 
not  accustomed.  I  suppose  you  also  are  going  to  dine 
with  Marramc  ? ' 

'  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  calling  the  Princess   X. 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  87 

Marraine,""  I  replied ;  '  but  if  she  has  the  pleasure  of 
calling  you  her  godchild,  we  are  bound  for  one  destina- 
tion.    Allow  me  to  ring  the  bell/ 

As  she  passed  into  the  hall,  the  cleai'er  light  shone, 
for  a  moment,  on  her  soft  brown  curls,  and  glanced, 
reflected,  in  her  mirthful  eyes. 

We  entered  the  drawing-room  ahnost  at  the  same 
moment.  As  the  Princess  rose  to  make  us  acquainted, 
she  laughed  again  and  said  quickly  : 

'  No,  no,  Marraine,  it  is  too  late.  I  was  introduced  by 
the  lift,  as  the  greatest  coward  this  gentleman  has  ever 
known,  quite  three  minutes  ago.' 

The  Princess  took  her  hand. 

'  Well !  well ! '  she  said,  '  was  there  ever  such  a 
naughty  debutante  ?  It  is  a  pity,  as  you  took  each  other 
up  so  pleasantly,  that  you  cannot  take  each  other  down 
also.     But  there  I  must  interfere."' 

'  It  is  cruel  of  you,  Princess.  Fate  was  much  kinder. 
But,' — I  turned  to  the  younger  lady — '  may  I  presume 
to  ask  your  hand  for  the  first  dance.?' 

'  You  may,'  she  said  merrily  ;  '  but  I  hope  you  know 
what  you  are  asking.  It  is  the  first  dance  that  I  have 
I'ver  given  any  one." 

'  Where  is  your  father  .'' '  asked  the  Princess. 

'  Kept  at  home  by  a  letter  from  the  Prime  Minister, 
He  begs  that  you  will  excuse  him  ;  for  nothing  else 
would  he  have  given  up  this  party.  He  is  coming  later 
on,  to  take  me  home.  I  hope  he  will  not  come  till  very 
late  indeed,  if  that  is  all  he  cares  for.  He  did  not  feel 
sure  that  it  was  meet  for  me  to  go  out  to  dinner  alone, 
even  to  the  house  of  my  godmother,  but  he  said  that  he 
did  not  want  to  disappoint  you,  and  I  think,''  she  put 
in  candidly,  though  very  demurely, '  he  did  not  want  to 


88  STORIES 

disappoint  me  either.     I  should  have  died  of  vexation  if 
I  had  had  to  stay  at  home.' 
The  Princess  laughed. 

'  That  makes  it  serious.  And  seriously,  my  love,  you 
are  quite  right.  Unless  one  is  dead  or  dying,  one  should 
keep  one's  dinner  engagement.  And,  while  I  think  of 
it,'  she  added,  addressing  herself  to  me,  '  I  must 
positively  engage  you  to  dine  with  me  to-morrow.  I 
expect  the  Prime  Minister,  and  I  cannot  be  left  alone  to 
entertain  him.  Eight  o'clock,  do  you  hear  ?  He  will 
have  to  leave  early,  so  mind  you  are  in  time.' 

'  To  hear  is  to  obey.  Unless  I  am  dead  or  dying  I 
will  keep  my  dinner  engagement.' 

'  I  think  I  am  sure  of  you  then.  You  never  looked 
better  in  your  life.' 

'  Dinner  is  on  the  table,'  said  the  Princess's  butler. 
The  ground  floor  of  the  hotel  had  been  engaged  for 
the  dance.  The  fiddles  were  already  striking  up  when  I, 
in  company  with  the  other  gentlemen  of  the  party, 
entered  the  room.  My  promised  partner  was  standing 
beside  the  Princess,  busily  inscribing  the  names  of 
various  aspirants  on  her  card.  I  thought  she  might  be 
better  employed  inscribing  mine,  and  said  so.  She  gave 
me  the  card,  and  I  availed  myself  of  the  vacant  spaces 
that  appeared  on  it. 

'  Quick,  quick  ! '  she  cried.  '  There  is  the  music  ! 
Are  you  not  longing  to  be  off'.?' 

Dancing  varies  inversely  as  the  character  of  the  lady 
who  dances.  With  her  it  resembled  nothing  so  much  as 
flight.  She  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  ground  with 
her  feet,  she  was  as  light  as  one  of  the  feathers  on  her 
cloak.  The  music  mounted  to  my  brain  as  we  went 
whirling  round  and  round  together.     I  felt  as  though  I 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  89 

were  a  spirit  cliasing  another  spirit.  I  forgot  everything 
else,  and  when  it  stopped  I  could  not  have  told  whether 
we  had  been  dancing  hours  or  moments.  I  had  begun 
in  another  state  of  existence. 

'Ah  !'  she  said,  'your  step  goes  well  with  mine."' 

How  I  filled  up  the  intervals  when  I  was  not  dancing 
with  her  I  do  not  know.  Once,  while  we  were  standing- 
together  in  the  recess  formed  by  a  window,  a  great  moth 
How  in  and  made  for  the  lighted  candelabra  over  our  heads. 
There  was  a  quick  change  in  her. 

'  O  save  it,  save  it ! '  she  cried,  clasping  her  little  hands 
together  in  wild  distress. 

I  caught  the  creature  in  my  handkerchief  and  let  it 
out  again.  When  I  returned  to  her  she  was  pale  and 
trembling. 

'  He  is  quite  safe,"  I  said.  '  Do  not  be  unhappy  ! 
After  all,  what  would  it  matter  if  he  did  burn  himself.? 
In  pioportion,  he  would  have  lived  much  longer  than  we 
shall.^ 

'  No,  no,'  she  said.     '  ^Ve  live  for  ever.' 

Her  words  sent  a  thrill  of  recollection  through  me. 

'  Do  we  .? ""  I  said  in  a  gentler  voice.  '  If  you  tell  me 
so,  I  will  believe  it.' 

'  Why  yes,  of  course  we  do  ! '  she  said.  '  I  never  heard 
any  one  say  that  we  did  not.  Shall  we  finish  this 
dance  ? ' 

It  was  the  last  op})ortunity  that  I  had  of  talking  to 
her.  I  think  I  was  engaged  in  conversation  with  some 
one  else  when,  later  on  in  the  evening,  I  heard  her 
pleading  tones  close  behind  me. 

'  Only  one  more !  O  let  me  stay  for  only  one 
more  !  "■ 

In  an  instant  she  was  at  my  side. 


90  STORIES 

'  I  must  go,'  she  said.  '  I  must  have  one  more  dance 
before  I  go.     I  do  not  know  where  my  partner  is.' 

It  was  irresistible,  though  I  had  a  humiliating  sensation 
that  she  asked  nie  only  because  there  was  no  one  else  at 
hand.  She  broke  away  just  when  the  delirium  of  enjoy- 
ment was  at  its  height. 

'  No  longer  ! '  she  cried.  '  Not  a  moment  more  !  That 
was  perfect.     Good- night ! ' 

She  made  me  a  tricksy  sign  of  adieu  with  her  fan, 
and  tripped  away ;  she  could  hardly  help  dancing  as 
she  moved. 

I  stood  bewildered  for  a  moment,  then  rushed  to  the 
door  that  I  might  see  her  as  she  passed  to  her  carriage. 
She  was  leaning  on  her  father  s  arm  as  she  went  down 
the  steps.  The  link-man  raised  his  torch  to  guide  them, 
and  a  sudden  glare  of  light  showed  me  the  features  of 
the  Count. 

I  drew  a  long  breath. 

'  It  is  as  well  that  I  am  going  to  fight  that  man 
to-morrow,'  I  thought.  '  If  not,  he  would  inevitably 
have  been  my  father-in-law.  In  the  first  place,  I  have 
not  enough  to  marry  upon ;  in  the  second,  we  should 
have  made  the  little  thing  miserable  between  us.' 

The  wind  detached  a  fragment  of  her  swansdown  cloak. 
I  stooped  and  picked  it  up. 

Practically  speaking,  the  disposition  of  my  time  had 
been  in  no  degree  influenced  by  the  Count's  grotesque 
requirement.  I  had  intended  all  along  to  stay  at  home 
until  eight  o'clock,  to  dine  with  the  Princess  X.,  to  go  to 
the  dance,  and  to  visit  the  dearest  iiiend  that  I  had  in 
the  world.  He  was  a  Dominican  monk,  of  great  learning 
and  acuteness,  resident  in  the  monastery  of  S.  Petrox, 
about  half  a  mile  off.     We  were  old  schoolfellows,  and, 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  91 

though  our  ways  of  life  were  very  different,  he  had  never 
lost  the  ascendency  over  me  which,  as  a  boy,  he  had 
understood  how  to  gain. 

He  was  busy  reading  when  I  entered  his  cell ;  he  laid 
his  finger  on  his  lips,  to  show  nic  that  I  must  not 
interrupt  him. 

After  a  long  pause,  he  closed  the  great  volume 
reverently  and  asked  me  wjiat  I  wanted  at  that  time 
of  night. 

*  I  want  an  immortal  soul.' 

'  Curious  !  "*  he  remarked,  pushing  his  spectacles  up  on 
his  forehead,  'I  have  just  been  studying  the  question 
of  the  soul.' 

'  Well !  what  is  the  result  of  your  investigations  ?"* 

'  My  friend,'  returned  the  Dominican,  '  what  would  it 
avail  were  I  to  tell  you  ?  I  know  your  mind  upon  these 
subjects.' 

'  That  is  more  than  I  know  myself,  then — more  than 
I  should  ever  have  wished  to  know  but  for  a  sti'ange 
occurrence.' 

I  told  him  all  the  circumstances  of  my  conversation  with 
the  Count, — not  mentioning  his  name,  of  course. 

'  You  have  helped  me  at  many  a  difficult  pass  before 
now,'  I  said.  '  Help  me  again.  Pour  out  the  contents 
of  that  great  volume  upon  my  head  ! ' 

'  You  would  be  as  wise  as  you  were  before.  I  know 
you,  am'ico  mio.     You  own  no  teacher  save  experience.' 

'  What  is  the  experience  that  can  make  a  man  believe 
in  that  of  which  he  has  none  ?  Tell  me,  that  I  may 
seek  it.' 

'  Is  there  any  one  in  the  world  of  whom  you  are  really 
fond  ?'  said  the  Dominican. 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  I  hesitated. 


92  STORIES 

'  Forgive  the  question !  It  is  of  no  importance. 
There  is  one  way  by  which  you  can  be  brought  to 
believe,  but  it  may  cost  you  your  life.  Are  you  willing 
to  risk  it  ? ' 

'  I  am  bound  to  preserve  my  life  until  to-morrow 
morning." 

'  So  far  I  can  guarantee  it,  if  you  are  careful  to  obey. 
For  the  rest,  you  are  indifferent  ?  Well  and  good  ! 
Understand  that  I,  on  my  part,  am  running  a  great 
risk  for  your  sake.  If  what  I  am  about  to  do  were 
to  become  known,  I  should  incur  excommunication. 
My  fellow-churchmen  would  say  that  I  was  endangering 
a  soul  within  the  fold  to  save  one  that  is  without.  So 
be  it !  You  are  my  friend.  You  are,  I  know,  an 
actor  of  some  experience.  Do  you  think  that  you  could 
personate  me  ? ' 

'  With  your  instructions,  I  have  no  doubt  that  I 
could." 

He  rose,  and  took  from  his  cupboard  a  priest's  robe 
and  a  little  cap. 

'  You  have  just  recovered  from  an  illness ;  you  must 
wear  a  heretta.  You  are  close  shaven ;  that  is  well. 
Under  the  heretta  your  hair  is  not  too  long.  Be  sure 
to  recollect  that  you  are  still  subject  to  cold — that  you 
must  on  no  account  take  it  off.  Before  we  go  any 
further,  oblige  me  by  taking  an  oath — a  solemn  oath. 
First,  that,  whatever  may  happen,  you  will  attempt  no 
resistance ;  secondly,  that  you  will  never  reveal  the 
names  of  those  amongst  whom  I  am  going  to  send  you, 
nor  any  of  the  circumstances  which  you  may  be  called 
upon  to  witness.  Before  you  swear,  reflect !  The  posses- 
sion of  a  secret  of  this  kind  implies  considerable  danger. 
Is  it  worth  the  risk  .? ' 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  93 

'A  strange  question  for  one  of  your  calling  lo  ask  I'  I 
retorted  ;  '  I  am  no  priest,  but  I  think  it  is.' 

'Is  there  anything  in  the  world  that  you  hold  sacred  ?" 
said  the  Dominican. 

I  drew  the  bit  of  swansdown  from  its  resting-place, 
profaning  the  one  true  sentiment  that  was  in  me  with  a 
laugh.     As  for  my  friend,  he  never  even  smiled. 

'  That  will  do  !  "•  he  said.  '  Swear  upon  tliat ! '  I 
did  so. 

'You  are  now  a  penitent  before  me.  I  have  heard 
your  confession.  I  am  about  to  absolve  yoii.  Take 
accurate  note  of  everything  that  I  say,  and  reproduce 
my  words,  as  nearly  as  you  can,  when  you  are  called  in 
to  the  death-bed ."* 

'You  spoke  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  woman,'  I  observed, 
when  he  had  finished. 

'  You  are  quite  right,'  said  the  monk.  '  Now  let  us 
reverse  the  parts.  Do  you  absolve  me,  as  if  I  were  a 
Avoman ! ' 

'I  repeated  the  form  of  words  which  he  had  just  gone 
through. 

'■Evviva!'  he  said,  when  I  had  done.  'You  might 
have  been  born  in  a  cassock.' 

At  the  same  moment  I  heard  the  hooting  of  an  owl 
in  the  garden  below.  He  started,  and  looked  at  the 
clock. 

'  Late  ! '  he  said.  '  That  is  the  carriage.  We  have 
not  a  moment  to  lose.  Let  me  recommend  you  to 
keep  silence  from  the  time  you  leave  these  doors  to 
the  time  when  you  are  set  down  again.  If  you  say 
a  word  more  than  is  necessary,  I  will  not  answer  for 
the  consequences.  I  shall  await  you  here  on  your  re- 
turn.    Remember   your   oath.     Then,  bending  forward 


94  STORIES 

as  if  he  feared  the  very  walls  would  hear,  he  added 
ill  a  whisper  : 

'  Talce  no  refreshment  in  that  house.'' 

He  touched  the  back  of  a  volume  of  the  Via  Media 
as  he  spoke  ;  part  of  what  had  appeared  to  be  the  book- 
case sprang  open  and  disclosed  a  winding  stair.  Without 
another  word,  he  pointed  down  it,  taking  a  light  to 
show  me  the  way.  At  the  last  turn  of  the  steps  he 
left  me. 

I  felt  the  cold  breath  of  the  night  lifting  my  hair. 
Then  I  was  suddenly  seized  and  blindfolded  ;  whether 
by  two  or  more  persons  I  could  not  be  sure,  for  I  was 
taken  by  surprise  in  the  darkness.  Determined  to 
adhere  to  the  prescribed  conditions  of  the  adventure,  I 
made  no  sound  and  I  heard  a  whisper : 

'  No  need  to  gag  him,  he  has  his  cue.' 

In  a  moment  strong  arms  had  lifted  me  and  were 
carrying  me  along — over  the  grass,  as  I  judged,  for 
there  was  no  ring  of  footsteps.  I  was  let  down  gently 
enough  upon  the  seat  of  a  carriage,  and  away  we  went 
like  the  wind.  How  long  it  took,  which  way  we  went, 
whether  there  was  any  one  else  in  the  carriage,  I  have 
no  idea.  A  steady  hand  must  have  held  the  reins.  We 
were  going  at  a  breakneck  pace,  yet  we  never  encountered 
the  smallest  obstacle,  nor  did  I  even  feel  a  jolt.  Thus 
was  I  whirled  along  through  the  night,  as  little  able  to 
see  as  if  I  had  been  sleeping. 

We  stopped  at  last.  I  was  helped  out,  and  guided, 
as  I  judged  by  the  mouldy  smell,  into  some  cellar  or 
disused  passage,  at  the  end  of  which  there  were  steps. 
Presumably,  they  led  up  into  a  house,  for  when  we  trod 
on  level  ground  again,  the  atmosphere  was  dry  and 
warm,  and,  to  my  great  surprise,  I  heard  the  tones  of  a 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  95 

piano  in  the  distance,  familiar  tones  at  the  sound  of 
which  my  heart  beat,  though  it  was  a  minute  before  I 
recollected  that  I  had  heard  them  last  as  I  was  leaving 
the  ball-room.  We  went  up  many  stairs,  down  many  more 
and  up  again,  the  sounds  growing  more  and  more  distinct 
as  we  advanced.  They  ceased  abruptly,  the  bandage 
was  removed,  and  I  found  myself  standing  alone  in  a 
tiny  room,  lit  by  one  small  red-shaded  lamp.  I  tried 
the  door,  but  it  was  locked  ;  mysterious,  for  I  had  heard 
no  turning  of  the  key  !  A  piano  stood  open,  but  there 
was  no  music  upon  it.  A  book  lay  on  the  sofa,  as  if 
some  one  had  just  tossed  it  down  there.  On  the  outer 
side  there  was  no  window  at  all ;  in  the  other  wall  was 
a  recess,  formed  by  three  little  windows  of  painted  glass, 
through  which  a  light  from  below  shone  dimly,  by  way 
of  the  jMadonna  and  two  attendant  saints. 

I  waited  a  long  time,  but  no  one  came.  The  stillness 
grew  oppressive.  I  threw  myself  on  the  sofa,  and  tried 
to  read,  but  the  air  was  heated  and  magnetic — it  seemed 
to  thrust  itself  between  me  and  the  lines.  I  looked  at 
the  first  page  of  the  book  to  see  if  there  were  any  indica- 
tion of  the  owner,  but  there  was  none.  I  then  tried 
several  others,  all  with  the  same  ill  success.  Clearly  they 
had  been  read  with  much  affection,  for  they  were  often 
marked  with  a  pencil:  but  there  was  never  any  name  in 
the  beginning,  and  from  one  or  two  of  them  the  fly-leaf 
had  been  removed. 

On  a  sudden  the  light  reflected  from  below  went  out ; 
the  saints  became  indistinguishable. 

My  curiosity  got  the  better  of  me.  I  resolved,  come 
what  would,  to  open  one  of  those  windows ;  to  have 
nothing  but  a  pane  of  glass  between  me  and  the  unknown 
was  too  strong  a   tem])tation.     I   pressed    with   all    my 


96  STORIES 

strength  against  the  woodwork  of  the  centre  one :  there 
was  a  slight,  a  very  slight,  yielding ;  it  seemed  to  give 
on  darkness.  I  moved  the  lamp  cautiously,  so  as  to 
concentrate  its  beams  upon  the  chink,  and  pressed  again. 
For  an  instant  I  caught  sight  of  the  dark  figure  of  a 
man,  bending  over  a  table,  in  front  of  a  fireplace,  far 
down  below.  Then  the  window  gave  an  ominous  creak. 
I  closed  it,  and  sat  breathless.  Whether  the  man  had 
heard  .f'  I  inclined  to  think  that  he  must  have.  Presently 
there  were  footsteps  outside. 

'  In  half  an  hour,""  said  a  man''s  voice. 

'  In  half  an  hour,"  said  a  woman's. 

It  was  music  echoing  a  discord.  The  key  turned  in 
the  lock  ;  the  little  lady  of  the  swansdown  cloak  entered, 
and  shut  the  door  behind  her.  I  cannot  now  conceive 
my  feelings  at  that  moment ;  but  I  had  just  presence  of 
mind  enough  to  recollect  that  I  should  be  turned  out  if 
I  did  not  sustain  my  part.  We  saluted  each  other  in 
the  usual  way,  and  she  knelt  down  before  me.  For  the 
first  time  it  darted  through  my  mind  that  she  was 
going  to  make  a  confession — and  to  me  ?  A  strong 
repugnance  to  hear  overcame  every  other  consideration. 
If  I  could  mock  that  creature,  I  must  be  a  fiend  in- 
carnate. Yet  how,  with  safety  to  my  friend — and  to 
myself — prevent  her  ?  I  took  a  step  backward.  She 
raised  her  eyes  appealingly.  I  frowned  and  turned 
away. 

'This  is  some  jest,'  I  said  sternly.  '  I  was  sent  for  to 
attend  a  deathbed.     Take  me  to  the  penitent."" 

'  It  is  I  that  am  dying.' 

'Are  you  mad?'  I  demanded.  'Many  a  time 
have  I  seen  death ;  never  with  eyes  and  cheeks  like 
these.' 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  97 

'  He  that  has  not  an  hour  to  live  is  no  nearer  death 
than  I  am.     I  shall  not  see  the  sun  rise  to-morrow.' 

She  spoke  with  such  conviction  that  I  staggered  back, 
reeling  under  the  shock. 

'  You  are  ill,'  she  said  solicitously,  rising  from  her 
knees.     '  Holy  Virgin,  what  shall  I  do  ?     Help  !  help  ! ' 

I  summoned  all  the  strength  of  mind  that  I  possessed. 

'Do  not  call,  my  daughter!  It  is  only  a  passing 
weakness.  The  way  hither  is  long.  I  am  but  lately 
recovered  from  a  severe  indisposition.     Let  me  rest ! ' 

Some  excuse  of  this  kind  I  think  I  made.  Whatever 
it  was,  she  accepted  it,  and  stood  watching  me  for  a 
minute  or  two.  Then,  seeing  that  I  was  better,  she 
said,  with  great  gentleness  : 

'It  was  not  good  to  send  you  out  on  such  a  wild 
night  as  this.  You  should  have  stayed  at  home  and 
slept.  It  grieved  me  so  to  see  that  I  have  made  you 
ill.  I  did  not  think  of  this  when  I  asked  my  father  to 
send  for  a  priest.  I  have  hardly  ever  been  allowed  one, 
but  you  are  very  like  some  one  that  I  have  seen — I 
cannot  feel  as  if  you  were  a  stranger.  I  could  believe 
anything  that  you  said — I  know  I  could.  Are  you  glad 
to  think  how  greatly  it  comforts  me  to  see  you  ? ' 

'  I  would  give  the  remnant  of  my  years,  if  that  could 
be  of  any  service  to  you,'  I  said,  striving  not  to  say  it 
too  fervently. 

She  was  quiet  for  a  moment; — then,  drawing  a  chair 
close  to  the  sofa  on  which  I  had  fallen  back,  she 
resumed. 

'  I  will  not  weary  you  with  making  a  long  confession. 
I  think  I  can  say  what  is  on  my  mind  better  like  this. 
I  trust  your  face.' 

She  hesitated. 

G 


98  STORIES 

'It  is  a  dreadful  thing.  At  first  I  thought  I  dared 
not  say  it  to  any  one.  It  was  wicked  of  me  even  to 
think  it." 

She  hid  her  face, 

'  But  you,  you  are  older ;  you  may  not  have  very  long 
to  live  either.  Things  look  so  different  then.  If  you 
said  it,  I  could  believe  it,     I  know  I  could,' 

Once  more  she  hesitated.  The  wind  had  risen  again 
in  all  its  fury,  and  was  howling  outside  the  window. 

'  Satan  tempts  us,"*  she  said. 

'  Yes,'  I  said,     '  Satan  tempts  us.' 

She  turned  her  face  away,  clasped  her  hands  tightly, 
and  went  on. 

'  I  do  not  know  how  to  say  it.  It  was  like  this.  I 
was  at  a  dance,  and  very  happy.  I  think  I  never  was 
so  happy  in  my  life.  I  never  danced  with  any  one 
before.  There  came  a  moth,  and  it  was  going  to  burn 
itself.  He  saved  it ;.  and  then  he  said,  "  What  matter 
if  it  had  died,  for  we  were  all  like  moths."  There  is 
nothing  more.' 

'  He  told  a  lie.' 

'  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it,'  she  said.  '  Say  that !  Look  at 
me  as  you  say  it  !     Say  :  "  I  believe  we  live  again."  ' 

'  I  believe  that  we  live  again,'  I  said  solemnly,  answer- 
ing her  gaze  with  perfect  truthfulness.  The  anguish 
passed  away ;  the  strained  hands  loosened.  She  bent 
her  head  and  closed  her  eyes.  When  she  spoke  again, 
she  said  in  a  whisper  :  '  It  is  all  well.  How  good  of  you 
to  come  !  He  said  he  would  believe  it,  if  I  told  him,  I 
could  not  tell  him.  He  made  me  feel  as  if  I  did  not 
know.  If  I  could  only — will  you  say  this  to  him  for  me  ? 
Ah,  no  !  I  forgot.     You  must  never  tell  any  one.' 

'  You  shall  tell  him  yourself,' 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  99 

A  light,  first  of  wonder,  then  of  the  happiness  of  those 
who  see  a  vision,  dawned  in  her  eyes.  I  was  still  half  in 
heaven  with  her,  when  the  Count  entered.  She  told  him 
that  I  had  been  ill — that  I  ought  not  to  have  eome  out 
at  night. 

'  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness.'  The 
Count  addressed  himself  to  me  with  a  graceful,  though 
condescending  bow.  'The  Abbot  is  informed  of  the 
reasons  for  which  secrecy  is  imperative,'  he  continued. 
I  feel  sure  that  you  will  hold  me  excused.  But  we 
must  not  suffer  you  to  go  hence  without  a  draught  of 
wine.'     His  daughter  went  before  him. 

I  followed,  down  the  dark  staircase  into  a  hall — tiie 
same  evidently  as  that  into  which  I  had  peeped  from  the 
window  of  the  boudoir.  It  lay  in  darkness  now ;  even 
the  fire  burned  low.     The  Count  carried  a  lamp. 

Strange  figures,  stranger  faces,  met  my  eyes.  Goat- 
footed  creatures  were  driving  airy  chariots  over  my  head ; 
Cupids  and  Fauns  and  things  half  man,  half  beast  or 
bird,  were  at  their  wildest  revelry  around  me.  Here 
stood  riiomme  arme,  his  visor  up,  nothing  but  vacant 
blackness  behind  it.  There,  two  colossal  heads,  man  and 
woman,  leered  at  each  other.  Garlands  of  carved  fruit 
and  flowers,  amidst  whicii  squirrels,  monkeys,  and  little 
owls  were  playing,  wreathed  pillar  and  post  of  the  stair- 
case by  which  we  iiad  come  down.  No  two  were 
alike. 

In  front  of  the  fire  stood  a  table;  on  it  a  tray  of 
polished  brass,  holding  a  flask  of  fine  Venetian  work  and 
some  glasses. 

He  seated  himself  in  silence.     I  did  the  same. 

A  French  clock  on  its  bracket  struck,  or  rather  tolled, 
an  hour  after  midnight. 


100  STORIES 

Lifting  his  dark  eyes,  the  Count  fixed  them  steadily 
upon  me. 

I  feared  his  recognition  too  much  to  meet  them,  for  he 
and  I  had  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes  once  before.  It 
is  impossible  to  mask  the  soul  when  she  is  sitting  at  her 
open  windows.     But  he  had  no  suspicion. 

'  In  the  course  of  your  life,'  he  said,  '  you  have,  no 
doubt,  seen  many  strange  things.'  He  waved  his  head  in 
the  direction  of  the  grotesques.  '  Did  you  ever,  if  I  may 
ask  the  question,  see  a  house  furnished  in  this  way 
before  ? ' 

'  Never.' 

'  Could  it  have  been  so  furnished  by  any  reasonable 
man  ? ' 

'  A  poet 't '  I  said  tentatively. 

The  Count  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'  There  are  no  poets  in  the  family.' 

I  kept  silence. 

'  The  man  shot  himself.  His  son  built  the  little  room 
up  above.  It  has  no  window  to  the  front.  There  his 
wife  lived  until  her  death.' 

He  glanced  up  at  a  portrait  on  the  wall,  the  features 
of  which  strongly  resembled  his  own. 

'  No  one  knows  what  became  of  him.' 

As  he  spoke,  he  pulled  a  silk  tassel  which  hung  by  a 
long  slender  cord  from  the  ceiling.  A  thousand  lights 
flashed  out.  The  heart  of  every  carven  rose  became  a 
heart  of  flame,  stars  glowed  among  the  vine  and  pome- 
granate, eyes  of  fire  shone  from  the  grotesque  heads. 
The  lights,  the  faces,  the  flowers'  and  fruit  all  round 
wreathed  themselves  into  the  first  letter  of  the  name  of 
my  enemy.  Everywhere  it  was  written.  A  wave  of  fresh, 
vigorous  hate  surged  over  me. 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  101 

*  Have  you  ever  seen  an  apartment  lighted  in  this 
manner  before  ? '  he  asked. 

'  I  must  confess  that  it  appears  to  me  fantastic,  though 
very  beautiful.'' 

'We  were  not  speaking  of  the  effect,  I  think.  It  is 
unusual  ? ' 

'  Certainly.' 

'The  invention  is  due  to  the  father  of  the  present 
owner.     He  fell  by  his  own  hand.' 

'  And  the  present  owner  ? '  I  said. 

The  Count's  expression  changed.  He  looked  at  his 
daughter,  who  had  seated  herself  on  a  low  couch  by  the 
fire.  She  did  not  appear  to  be  listening ;  but  he  lowered 
his  voice. 

'  The  present  owner  has  one  child — now  in  the  flower 
of  her  youth.  She  does  not  know  the  dreadful  fate  of  her 
ancestors.  She  has  only  been  told  thus  much — that  at 
the  age  of  seventeen  she  will  pass  into  another  life.  She 
feels  no  fear,  since  she  is  going  to  the  mother  whom,  as  a 
babe,  she  lost.  Of  the  exact  moment  and  manner  of  her 
death  she  has  been  kept  in  ignorance  until  within  an  hour 
of  it.  Nothing  has  frightened,  nothing  has  distressed 
her.  Pure  and  unspotted  as  she  came  to  him,  he  that 
best  loves  her  desires  to  send  her  back  to  that  heaven 
which  is  more  real  to  her  than  earth,  to  that  heaven 
which  will  save  her  from  knowing — as,  but  for  him,  she 
must  infallibly  know — that  this  earth  is  a  hell.  Is  he 
right  ? ' 

'  No,'  I  said,  witii  a  certain  assurance.  '  He  is  mad.' 
The  Count  started ;  but  on  the  instant  he  was  calm 
again. 

'That  makes  the  fifth  generation,'  he  said,  as  if  to 
himself.     '  In  the  eyes  of  ignorant  persons  he   may   be 


102  STORIES 

mad  perhaps.  Is  it  not  the  truest  sanity  to  prevent  these 
horrors  from  cuhninating  in  a  sixth  ?  I  cannot  but 
approve  his  judgment."' 

He  turned  towards  the  girl.  She  raised  her  face  to  his. 
I  saw  that  it  was  white  as  marble.  I  thought  that  she 
was  going  to  faint.  Instinctively  I  seized  the  flask  and 
poured  out  some  of  the  wine. 

'Well  thought  of!'  said  the  Count.  'The  Church, 
however,  comes  first — even  before  a  lady.' 

He  made  a  sign  to  her. 

'  You  need  refreshment  more  than  I,'  she  said,  offering 
me  the  glass, 

I  took  it  from  her,  not  thinking  what  I  did.  And  yet 
some  word  of  hers  recalled  a  word  spoken  before. 

'  Refreshment ! ' 

Take  no  refreshment  in  that  house. 

I  had  but  tasted.  For  the  moment  my  senses  still  were 
clear.  I  saw  the  Count  sprinkle  drops  from  a  phial  on  to 
his  handkerchief  and  give  it  to  the  little  lady.  I  saw  her 
fall  back  softly  on  the  couch. 

Her  father  watched  with  rapt  attention.  The  swans- 
down  cloak  that  she  had  worn  was  hanging  over  the  back 
of  a  chair.  Suddenly  he  tore  a  bit  of  it  away  and  held 
it  to  her  lips.     The  light  down  never  stirred. 

I  thought  that  I  called  out,  but  heard  no  sound. 
There  was  a  weight  of  lead  upon  my  eyes — the  air  was 
thick  with  fog.  I  fought  with  might  and  main  to  get  to 
her.     I  could  not  stir  a  step.    I  could  not  even  see  her  now. 

Making  one  last  effort  to  move,  I  missed  my  footing 
and  fell — fell,  as  it  seemed,  into  a  yawning  gulf  that 
opened  suddenly  before  me — fell  down  and  down  and 
down  into  the  fathomless  depths  of  that  slumber  wherein 
we  spend  the  half  of  existence. 


THE  FRIENDLY  FOE  103 

But  Lethe  had  been  meted  out  unevenly ;  to  her  the 
sleep  that  knew  no  earthly  morrow — to  nie  the  sleep  that 
ended  in  a  few  hours,  leaving  the  rest  of  life  a  dream. 

On  the  day  after,  I  met  the  Count  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  I  kept  my 
dinner  engasiement. 


104  STORIES 


[1898] 
THE  LADY  ON  THE  HILLSIDE  ^ 

MeadowSj  tho"  your  flowers  are  bright, 

Tho'  you  laugh,  your  laugh  is  light. 

For  the  maid  is  rarer  far 

Than  your  sweetest  garlands  are. — Melka(;eh. 

'  For  my  part,'  said  Michele,  'I  do  not  admire  the 
Duchess  of  Milan's  daughters." 

'  Whose  daughters  do  you  admire.'"  asked  one  of  the 
others.  '  Not  Heaven's  own,  I  think  !  I  would  not  be 
the  woman  that  you  wed.  Were  she  as  fair  as  \'enus, 
you  would  cast  her  very  perfection  in  her  teeth,  because 
it  left  you  nothing  to  wish  for.' 

'  You  speak  truly,  O  wise  young  man  !  Perfection  is 
none  the  less  a  vice  because  it  is  a  vice  that  few  are 
capable  of  practising.  That  which  satisfies  and  does  not 
stimulate  the  soul  of  man  is  but  a  snare  of  the  Arch- 
enemy." 

'  If  that  be  so,  the  sooner  we  all  marry  the  Graiae  the 
better.  They  had  but  one  eye  between  them,  and  they 
were  always  saying,  "  Oh,  the  old  days  were  better  than 
the  new!"  It  must  be  truly  edifying  to  contemplate 
the  dissatisfaction  in  the  soul  of  man  that  would  result 
from  such  an  union.  Yet  have  I  heard  you  swear  that 
an  ugly  woman  was  not  a  woman  at  all.' 

'  He  does  not  know  what  beauty  i>,'  chimed  in 
1  From  The  Conihill,  June  1898. 


THE  LADY  ON  THE  HILLSIDE  105 

Guaniieri  da  Castiglionchio.  '  He  thinks  so  much  about 
it  that  he  never  has  time  to  see  it.  "He  that  obscrveth 
the  wind  shall  not  sow,  and  he  that  regardeth  the  clouds 
shall  not  reap."  Paint  your  ideal  beauty  for  us,  Master 
Michelel  (You  will  perceive  that  he  cannot  do  it.) 
What  is  she  like.^' 

They  were  leaning  over  a  parapet  on  the  Lung'  Arno, 
between  the  Ponte  Vecchio  and  the  Bridge  of  the  Four 
Seasons.  Michele  rested  his  chin  upon  his  hand,  and 
spoke  thoughtfully, 

'  She  is  tall  and  slender,  and  her  head  is  set  upon  her 
neck  like  that  of  a  violet  on  its  stem.  The  colour  in  her 
check  is  but  a  roseleaf  dropped  on  lilies.' 

'  Hear  him  ! '  cried  Ercole.  '  She  is  not  flesh  and  blood  at 
all — this  creature  of  roses  and  lilies  !  You  might  as  well 
marry  Cantica  Canticoruni.  More  detail,  say  I!  What 
is  her  forehead  like  t — though  I  can  tell  without  telling  ! " 

'  It  is  high  and  white.' 

'  I  thought  so.     The  eyebrows  ? ' 

'  Perfect  arch — so  faintly  marked  that  I  am  almost 
wrong  to  call  it  dark.' 

'  The  nose .''     It  is  a  little  nose,  of  course .'' ' 

'The  distance  between  it  and  the  upper  lip  is  perhaps 
a  thought  longer  than  with  most  women.' 

'I  should  never  know  this  angel  of  yours  if  I  were  to 
meet  her.     What  sort  of  hair  has  she  .^ ' 

Here  Guarnieri  interrupted. 

'  You  must  not  tax  his  powers  too  far.  Even  the 
excellent  hero  of  that  excellent  English  comedy  you 
showed  me  the  other  day,  when  he  has  numbered  all  the 
gifts  that  must  unite  in  the  person  of  his  mistress,  decides 
that  her  hair  shall  be  "  of  what  colour  it  please  God. 

'  Nay,  nay,'  Michele  said.     '  I  know  the  colour  of  her 


106  STORIES 

hair — a  dark  auburn.  It  is  twisted  in  rippling  lines  like 
those  the  waves  make  out  at  sea  beyond  Pisa — it  takes 
as  many  ever-varying  forms  as  flame."' 

'"The  Fair  One  with  the  Golden  Locks'"  was  nothing 
to  this  lady.' 

'  Your  description  reminds  me  too  much  of  Medusa, 
said  Ercole.  '  There  is  something  serpentine  about  hair 
that  looks  as  if  it  were  endued  witii  separate  life.  And, 
except  for  this,  Guarnieri  is  right.  You  have  given  no 
details  that  can  be  recognised.  To  quote  again  his 
favourite  barbaric  author — 

'  "  How  shall  I  your  true  love  know  ?  "  ' 

'  By  her  motion,"*  Michele  said,  so  fervently  that  his 
three  friends  looked  up  surprised ;  '  for  she  moves  like  a 
goddess.  By  her  voice,  for,  when  she  speaks,  you  hear 
the  singing  of  the  spheres."" 

'Is  she  a  fool?'  inquired  Guarnieri,  'A  woman  that 
looks  like  one  of  the  Celestials  generally  is.  She  is  a  fool, 
of  course .'' '     Michele  smiled  mysteriously. 

'  She  is  wise,""  he  said.     '  She  has  been  taught  wisdom,"" 

'  Then  she  will  never  marry  you,  my  fine  fellow  ! ' 

'  Why  not.'*"'  Michele  asked  quickly. 

'  Why,  indeed  .'' ""  queried  Ercole.  '  A  wise  maid  knows 
a  wise  man  when  she  sees  him."" 

'That  does  she  not,""  cried  Guarnieri.  'You,  O 
Michele,  are  the  wisest  man  of  your  years  in  Florence, 
for  you  have  never  been  known  to  miss  anything  on 
which  you  had  set  your  heart,  and  you  have  never  been 
known  to  praise  it  when  you  had  won  it.  You  could 
tell  us  tales,  if  you  would  (nay,  do  not  frown  !  who  said 
you  would  .f^),  of  the  fairest  and  most  famous  dames  of 
our  city.     But  for  all  that,  Diotima  her  very  self,  if  she 


THE  LADY  ON  THE  HUXSIDE  107 

wedded,  would  rather  wed  Ajj^ostino  here,  who  has  a 
heart  and  no  head — who  fiohts  anybody  that  dares  to 
mention  a  hidy  said  so  much  as  "  Good  mornino;"  to  him, 
unless  he  does  it  on  his  knees.' 

'  Dear  me  ! ''  said  Ercole.     '  How  exceedingly  foolish  ! ' 

'  It  is  a  kind  of  folly  that  women  prefer  to  wisdom/ 

'  Ah,  well !  You  ought  to  know,  Castiglionchio.  I 
have  heard  it  said  that  you  yourself  are  more  of  a  woman 
than  a  man." 

'By  whom?'  said  Guarnieri  angrily. 

'  By  the  fair  Riccarda  di  Ser  Pace  da  Certaldo,  whom 
Heaven  preserve  !  I  am  bound  to  add  that  she  said  she 
liked  Agostino  much  better.' 

Guarnieri  laughed. 

'  Oho  !  Sits  the  wind  in  that  (juarter  ?  But  Madonna 
Iticcarda  is  privileged.  If  she  speaks  to  me  with  her 
eyes,  as  she  did  the  last  time  I  saw  her,  she  shall  be 
forgiven  the  sins  of  her  lips.  By  the  way,  Michele,  there 
is  one  thing  that  you  have  not  told  us  yet,  anent  this 
mistress  of  yours.     Has  she  good  eyes  .^ ' 

Michele  did  not  answer  immediately.  When  he  did, 
his  voice  shook. 

'  May  I  descend  to  the  lowest  circle  of  the  lowest 
Inferno,  if  ever  I  speak  of  them  ! '  he  said. 

A  momentary  pause  followed. 

Ercole  had  meant  to  laugh,  but  he  checked  himself. 

Guarnieri  frowned. 

A  sudden  outbreak  of  sincerity,  when  no  one  expects 
it,  is  disagreeable  to  the  nerves  as  lightning  at  noon  in 
clear  weather.  There  was  some  one,  it  appeared,  and 
Michele  was  fond  of  her.  Michele's  friends  had  nothing 
to  say. 

Only  one  of  them  remained  at  his  ease — one  who  had 


108  STORIES 

not  spoken  before,  but  listened,  sitting  upon  the  parapet. 
He  was  the  youngest  of  the  group — scarcely  past  boy- 
hood indeed.     Now  he  came  to  the  rescue. 

'  You  will  be  late  for  the  Masque,  all  three  of  you,'  he 
said.     '  The  bells  rang  nine  long  ago.' 

'  The  boy  speaks  well,'  cried  Ercole.  '  Come,  come 
Guarnieri !  Stir  those  thin  legs  of  thine,  or  iSIonna 
Riccarda  will  have  something  to  say  to  thee,  and  I  am 
much  mistaken  if  she  does  not  say  it  with  her  lips  and 
her  eyes  also  !     Are  not  you  coming,  Agostino  ?' 

'Not  I.' 

'  And  you,  IVIichele  ?  "  It  is  best  to  be  off  with  the 
old  love  before  you  are  on  with  the  new." ' 

'  No  doubt ! '  Michele  said.  '  I  will  join  you  later  on 
in  the  evening.     Do  not  wait  for  me.' 

The  two  friends  drew  off,  singing  a  light  song  as  thev 
went : 

Quel  die  mi  nega  amor, 
Spero  dal  mio  furor  ; 
Se  nou  gradito  fu  il  mio  bel  foco, 
Del  fier  cielo  le  furie  iuvoco, 
Nel  mio  dolor. 

So  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight,  Michele  laid  his 
hand  on  Agostino's  shoulder. 

'  You  should  have  gone  with  them.     You  are  young.' 

'  Why  should  I  go  .^  I  have  no  lady-love.  You  should 
have  gone,  Michele.     You  have  many.' 

'  Do  you  think  so?' 

Agostino  turned  round  and  looked  at  him. 

'  No,'  he  said  slowly.     '  You  have  one.' 

'  I  have  had  many  lovers,'  Michele  said,  '  but  now  the 
time  is  come  to  love.  I  have  sought  the  whole  world 
over ;  now  at  last  I  have  found.     Yes,  there  is  one.     I 


THE  LADY  ON  THE  HH.LSIDE  109 

have  talked  with  her  many  times.  I  have  instructed  her 
in  the  ways  of  wisdom.  On  the  wild  hillside,  where  she 
lives,  she  sees  no  man  except  her  father.  When  first  I 
spoke  to  her  of  love,  she  stared  and  started  like  a 
frightened  thing.  In  three  days'  time  I  go  to  wed  her. 
You  only  understood — you  only  saw.  I  do  not  want 
those  chattering  geese  to  know.  Keep  my  secret,  sweet 
friend,  and  wish  me  well ! "" 

All  the  rest  of  his  life  Agostino  remembered  that 
moment — the  double  sparkle  of  the  lights  upon  the 
Ponte  Vecchio,  bright  up  above,  softened  in  the  waters ; 
the  shadowy  fisherman  in  his  shadowy  boat,  raising  his 
cage-like  net  of  gossamer ;  the  still,  dreadful  moon,  hung 
like  a  fiery  disc  in  the  deep,  quiet  sky. 

'  In  seven  days,'  he  said,  '  I  also  leave  my  home,  not  to 
return  thither.  I  kno-.v  not  why  I  am  going.  I  shall 
not  seek  as  you  have  sought.  When  the  hour  strikes,  I 
think  that  I  shall  find  without  seeking.  Tell  this  to  no 
one,  Michele,  but  keep  my  secret  and  wish  me  well !  "* 

Agostino  blushed  as  he  spoke.  To  himself  he  seemed 
to  have  made  a  great  confession.  Michele  scarcely  heard 
it,  nor  did  it  strike  him  that  he  too  had  received  a 
confidence. 

Seven  days  later  Agostino  rode  up  the  Via  delle  Belle 
Donne.  He  was  gaily  dressed  in  a  suit  of  white  satin 
and  silver. 

'  The  bridegroom  !  The  bridegroom  ! '  the  little 
children  in  the  streets  shouted  after  him  ;  and  he  lifted 
his  cap  good-naturedly,  as  if  he  were  the  duke  himself. 

The  old  men  shrugged  their  shoulders  as  he  passed. 

'The  fool!'  said  they;  'however,  youth  is  always 
young.' 


no  STORIES 

Agostino  was  in  the  mood  to  think  every  one  beautiful. 
The  children  were  Holy  Innocents,  the  old  men  Solomons 
in  all  their  glory.  And,  indeed,  if  there  be  any  place 
where  a  man  may  defend  the  foolishness  of  feeling  happy 
because  the  sun  shines,  Florence,  in  the  month  of  May, 
is  that  place. 

Agostino  had  few  memories,  and  his  hopes  were  still 
vague  and  indefinite,  airy  thoughts  that  were  bound  to 
nothing  on  earth  and  lost  themselves  in  the  blue.  He 
was  not  compelled  to  build  upon  the  future  because  the 
past  lay  in  ruins.  His  life  hitherto  had  been  gentle.  He 
lived  it  fearlessly,  seeing  no  evil ;  wanting  nothing  because, 
when  desire  is  not  yet  awakened,  a  very  little  will  satisfy 
one  who  has  it  in  him  to  desire  the  whole  world. 

He  was  on  his  wav  now  to  find  out  for  himself  Avhat 
the  world  looked  like  beyond  the  walls  of  Florence, 
moved  by  no  discontent,  but  by  that  restlessness  in  the 
blood  which,  at  the  season  when  Nature  teaches  her 
winged  children  to  build  houses,  stings  the  children  of 
men  to  forsake  theirs,  and  to  seek  in  travel  the  new  life 
that  the  wandering  creatures  find  in  rest.  He  could 
hardly  forbear  singing  aloud  as  he  rode. 

A  flood  of  light  bathed  the  stern  palaces,  and  opened 
the  buds  of  all  the  climbing  plants  along  the  walls  and 
round  the  windows.  The  streets  were  like  a  shifting 
garden.  Every  girl  whom  he  met  carried  a  sheaf  of 
blossoms.  A  child,  like  a  big  flower  in  red  from  top 
to  toe,  stole  out  from  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  dark 
doors,  looked  up  to  a  window  and  Idssed  his  hand  to  the 
roses  there,  then  laughed  a  roguish  laugh  and  ran  across 
the  bridge. 

Agostino  had  not  made  up  his  mind  in  what  direction 
he  was  going ;  he  followed  the  child. 


THE  LADY  ON  THE  HILLSIDE  111 

The  goldsmiths  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio  had  set  forth  all 
their  toys.  Every  counter  flashed  ;  the  small  black 
booths  were  afire  with  brightness.  The  flood  beneath 
had  turned  jeweller — diamonds  were  sparkling  on  the 
troubled  Arno.  The  child  looked  down  and  clapped  his 
hands,  dancing  for  joy. 

One  of  the  goldsmiths  at  the  farther  end,  who  dealt  in 
magic  rings — toadstones  and  such  brown  ware — glanced 
up  at  Agostino  somewhat  wistfully  as  he  passed. 

'  A  fine  young  man  !  "*  he  murmured,  '  and  going  to  his 
bridal.' 

Agostino  did  not  hear  the  words;  if  he  liad,  they 
would  have  sent  him  hotly  on  his  way.  But  he  saw 
the  look,  and,  being  sorry  that  any  one  should  wish  for 
anything  in  vain  from  him  on  such  a  morning,  he  stopped. 

'  Hola,  sir  shopman  of  the  sad  countenance !  Where 
is  the  brightest  jewel  in  your  window  ?  ' 

'  It  is  not  far  to  seek,'  the  man  said,  smiling,  and 
showed  him  a  ring  of  seven  fire-opals. 

'  That  is  a  rainbow,'  said  Agostino.  '  I  want  only  the 
sun.' 

' Nay,  Cavaliere,'  the  man  said  ;  '  what  is  a  lainbow 
but  the  sun  shining  on  rain,  making  it  sunshine 
too  ? ' 

Agostino  laughed,  counted  out  the  price  (for  he  was 
careful),  and  hid  the  ring  beneath  his  satin  vest.  The 
child  had  disappeared  meanwhile. 

'  I  have  lost  my  guide  for  a  bit  of  finery,'  said  Agostino 
to  himself.  'No  matter!  I  shall  find  him  again  when  I 
need  him.  The  world  is  full  of  guides  who  do  not  know 
whither  they  are  going.' 

As  he  spoke,  a  scarlet  butterfly  fluttered  down  from 
the  branches  of  a  tall  lilac  that  overtopped  the  wall,  and 


112  STORIES 

flew  in  zigzags  on  before  him,  like  a  flower  blown  loose 
from  its  stem. 

'  My  guide  for  me,"  laughed  Agostino,  and  followed. 

The  butterfly  led  him  out  of  the  city  and  far  along 
the  road  to  the  mountains.  After  a  while  he  lost  it 
in  the  new  green  and  the  old  grey  of  a  rough  olive,  and 
then  he  followed  the  windings  of  the  path.  He  had 
never  in  his  life  ridden  so  far  on  this  side  of  the  city, 
for  he  was  of  a  home-keeping  disposition,  and  during  his 
childhood  and  early  youth  cared  for  valleys  and  mountains, 
trees,  birds,  and  living  creatures,  only  when  he  could  look 
at  them  through  the  eyes  of  poets  and  story-tellers. 
Often  had  he  been  angered  because  older  men  bade  him 
'  lift  up  his  eyes  unto  the  hills,'  when  they  were  fixed  on 
snowy  alps,  on  dazzling  peaks,  and  pinnacles  of  ice  taller 
than  any  outside  the  covers  of  a  book.  Nevertheless,  his 
books  of  late  had  left  him  lacking  somewhat.  They  did 
not  hold,  as  heretofore,  the  six  days  of  creation  and  an 
eternal  Sabbath  besides. 

One  day  the  spring  wind  rustled  the  pages  that  he 
could  not  read,  and  spoke  to  him  louder  than  Petrarch. 
One  day  the  sun  struck  down  on  them,  so  that  the  black 
and  white  danced  before  his  eyes,  and  looking  up  he  saw 
the  sun. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  gazed  about  him,  and  felt 
as  though  a  veil  had  lifted ;  as  long  as  the  sky  were 
blue  he  could  never  again  be  altogether  sorrowful.  His 
books  were  old  compared  with  the  immortal  youth  of 
trees ;  the  passion  that  had  set  him  on  fire  for  love  and 
bravery  grew  chill  beside  the  warmth  of  this  ancient 
light.  What  was  beauty  itself,  frozen  into  a  form  of 
words,  to  the  changing,  singing,  shining  beauty  of  the 
earth  in  springtime  ?     While  he  read  he  had  often  been 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HILLSIDE  113 

troubled  by  a  longing  to  see  the  magician  who  painted 
such  marvellous  pictures ;  but  now  the  fulness  of  content 
was  his — he  had  no  desire  to  behold  the  author  of  this 
book. 

*•  Pure  Homer  ! '  he  said,  recalling  dimly  something  that 
he  had  felt  when  he  heard  learned  men  questioning  if 
Homer  were  one  person  or  many,  and  wondered  why  they 
thought  it  worth  while. 

As  for  his  friends,  he  needed  them  not.  The  absence 
of  the  dearest  of  them  was  gain  rather  than  loss.  Now 
that  he  lived  alone  and  free,  he  knew — how  well  he 
knew  ! — that  they  had  often  left  him  lonely,  that  the 
very  closeness  of  their  attachment  kept  him  in  prison. 
Here  there  was  no  friendship :  he  and  the  world  were 
one. 

He  had  come  to  the  outskirts  of  a  wood  by  now ;  the 
trees  were  scattered  apart  at  short  distances  from  each 
other.  As  he  rode  under  one  of  them  his  cap  caught 
on  a  bough.  Staying  a  moment  to  right  it,  a  little 
song  close  to  his  ear  stopped  suddenly,  and  peeping  in 
he  saw  among  the  fresh  green  leaves  and  buds  a  nest  on 
which  a  tiny  brown  bird  sat  with  twinkling  eyes.  He 
let  the  bough  go  softly,  not  to  frighten  her,  and  waited; 
but  the  song  did  not  begin  again,  and  he  rode  on,  deep 
in  thought.  Where  was  her  mate.^  It  vexed  him  to 
have  sent  a  thrill  of  fear,  even  unconsciously,  through 
any  heart,  when  he  himself  was  full  of  joy.  The  sight 
of  the  bird  seemed  to  have  snapped  a  cord,  and  the  vague 
yet  eager  longing  which  had  driven  him  forth  from  the 
city  quickened  and  grew  and  burst  its  bonds. 

As  he  set  spurs  to  his  horse  and  went  galloping  through 
the  forest,  it  appeared  to  him  that  the  world  fell  away 
on  either  side  leaving  him  in  an  undreamed-of  solitude. 


114  STORIES 

What  were  these  long-lived  trees  to  him  ?  Their  trunks 
were  covered  with  moss  when  he  was  born ;  they  would 
but  wear  a  little  more  when  he  was  dead.  What  were 
these  woodland  creatures?  They  had  their  loves  and 
sorrows  quite  apart. 

He  had  flung  his  arms  around  the  world  ;  vast  as  it 
was,  it  could  not  fill  them.  It  failed  him  as  his  friends 
had  failed  him.  It  was  not  many  that  he  needed  ;  it 
was  not  all.  Certain  words  spoken  a  week  ago  took 
form  and  shaped  themselves  in  his  mind :  '  There 
is  one.'' 

And  there,  in  the  full,  golden  light  of  morning,  lay  a 
girl,  clothed  from  head  to  foot  in  a  long  robe  of  green. 
Quite  still  she  lay,  and  seemed  asleep.  There  was  no 
colour  in  her  cheeks. 

How  long  he  stood  there  gazing,  after  he  had  dis- 
mounted from  his  horse,  he  did  not  know.  He,  who 
had  never  feared  anything,  was  filled  with  fear,  which 
cast  him  down  into  depths  of  humility  that  his  religion 
had  never  fathomed.  He  bent  his  head,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand ;  when  he  drew  it  away  again  it 
was  wet. 

'  God  made  you,'  he  said. 

Her  long  white  hands,  thrown  loosely  one  upon  the 
other,  held  a  letter  between  them.  Her  head  was 
cushioned  upon  a  hillock  of  moss :  the  soft  bright  hair 
fell  like  a  fairy  cloak  on  either  side  of  her,  and  glistened 
where  it  caught  the  sun.  At  her  feet,  on  the  edge  of 
her  robe,  lay  a  little  long-haired  dog,  his  furry  squirrel's 
tail  curled  over  his  back,  his  sharp  nose  resting  on  his 
paws,  and  his  eyes  shut. 

Both  figures  were  perfectly  still.  It  was  only  sleep 
that  had  ({uieted  the  dog  :  was  it  something  else  that 


THE  I.ADY  OF  THE  Hn.LSn:)E  115 

kept  the  lady  without  motion?  Tlie  holy  and  joyful 
fear  in  him  changed  into  terror  at  the  thought. 

With  hushed  steps  coming  nearer,  he  knelt  upon  the 
ground  by  her  side,  and,  bending  over,  listened.  There 
was  no  breath.  When,  trembling  at  his  own  audacity, 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  bosom,  it  did  not  heave. 
Trembling  still  more,  he  touched  her  hand.  Just  such 
a  chill  had  struck  through  him  when  he  touched  that  of 
a  statue. 

The  letter  had  fallen  to  the  ground.  As  he  picked  it 
up  he  perceived  that  the  cover  of  it  bore  this  inscription  : 
'  To  the  Wayfarer.'  The  writing  was  delicate  and  fine, 
but  stiff.  Wonder  grew  upon  him  as  he  broke  the  seal 
and  read  :  '  O  !  thou,  who  findest  without  seeking,  bury 
me  as  thou  hast  found  me,  for  the  love  of  that  love  for 
which  I  am  dead.'  Agostino  folded  it  up  again  carefully, 
so  that  the  paper  bent  to  the  same  lines,  and  laid  it  next 
his  heart. 

It  was  not  possible  to  do  anything  while  the  heat 
lasted,  and  he  sat  down  to  watch.  Hunger  and  thirst 
were  forgotten.  In  his  long  vigil  of  the  day  he  tasted 
that  perfect  happiness  which  kills  all  bodily  need. 

The  rays  of  the  sun  were  slantwise  when  the  dog 
awoke,  and,  running  farther  up  the  hill  among  the  trees, 
began  to  bark.  Loth  to  go,  yet  dreading  an  alien 
presence,  Agostino  rose  (juickly  and  followed  it  for  some 
time.  The  trees  thinned  out  again  as  they  neared  the 
summit,  and  down  the  rough  mountain-path  a  man  came 
riding  slowly  and  wearily.  Could  Agostino  have  avoided 
meeting  him  he  would  have  done  so,  but  there  was  no 
help  for  it ;  his  very  impatience  to  be  back  again  told 
him  that  he  must  wait. 

As  the  man  came  nearer,  he  recognised  with    a   dim 


116  STORIES 

feeling  of  surprise,  the    castdown    features    of  Michele, 
and  was  recognised  in  his  turn. 

Michele  reined  in  a  tired  steed  and  said  bitterly  : 

'  Well  met,  Agostino  !     Is  the  time  come  to  love  ? ' 

'  Yes !  "■  Agostino  said. 

'  You  make  short  work  of  it ! ''  I  have  been  seeking 
for  years.  When  I  saw  you  but  a  week  since,  you  had 
not  yet  begun  the  search,"' 

'  No,"'  Agostino  said,  '  I  have  found."* 

He  spoke  as  though  afraid  to  say  it,  and  yet  Michele 
heard. 

'  What  is  the  lady  like  ? '  he  asked  scornfully. 

'  AVhat  is  she  like  ?  '  said  Agostino,  as  though  he  were 
trying  to  remember.  '  She  is  tall  and  slender.  Her 
forehead  is  high  and  very  white,  and  the  arched  eye- 
brows are  faintly  marked,  soft  and  dusky.  Her  hair  is 
a  dark  auburn  with  rippling  lines  in  it,  like  those  the 
waves  make  out  at  sea  beyond  Pisa."" 

He  scarcely  recollected  that  he  had  heard  these  words 
before,  nor  did  they  seem  to  him  like  that  which  he 
had  seen ;  they  rose  to  his  lips  of  themselves,  as  it 
were. 

Michele's  eyes  flamed,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
hilt  of  his  sword. 

'  Wretch  ! '  he  cried  aloud.     '  You  have  stolen  her.' 

'  AVhat  do  you  mean  r '  said  Agostino,  who  cared 
little. 

*  You  have  stolen  all  that  was  mine  in  her,  down  to 
the  very  words  in  which  I  treasured  it.  Those  were 
mine,  and  you  heard  them."' 

'  Are  you  mad  ? '  Agostino  inquired. 

'  Not  mad,  but  like  to  be.  Forgive  me,  sweetest 
friend !     Your  words  were  as  a  knife  in  an  open  wound. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HHXSn^E  117 

I  luive  risked  all  upon  one  venture,  and  have  lost.  So 
you  are  happy  ? "" 

'  Tell  me  why  you  are  not."" 

Michele  turned  his  face  away,  that  Agostino  might 
not  see  the  flush  of  shame  that  reddened  it.  He  spoke 
as  one  whose  speech  costs  him  so  many  moments  out  of 
life  to  utter. 

'  When  I  reached  her  father's  home  three  days  since,  it 
was  to  hear  that  she  had  left  it.  She  told  me  once 
before  that  she  would  not  wed  me,  because  she  did  not 
love  me,  and  without  love  she  held  it  sin  to  wed.  The 
very  day  I  came  she  disappeared.  She  left  no  clue, 
we  ransacked  all  the  neighbourhood  in  vain.  I  have 
wandered  everywhere  seeking ' 

'  And  I  have  found  her,'  said  Agostino. 

Michele's  sword  flashed  from  its  sheath. 

'  Where  is  she  .'' '  he  shouted. 

Agostino  pointed  back  to  the  wood. 

'  Give  her  to  me  ! '  Michele  cried,  '  or,  by  the  powers 
of  hell " 

Agostino  straightened  his  back  against  the  trunk  of 
a  stone-pine,  and  prepared  to  defend  himself. 

'I  will  not  give  her  up,"  he  said.  '  Ei'p/yK-a — I  have 
found  her.' 

And  he  saluted. 

Michele  flew  at  him  like  a  wild  cat. 

He  was  flghting,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  with 
reckless  fury,  while  his  opponent  was  cool  and  collected, 
and  .so  composed  in  mind  that  he  compared  the  gleam  of 
the  steel,  burnished  by  the  evening  light,  to  a  severed 
sunbeam,  darting  hither  and  thither.  They  had  fought 
but  a  round  or  two  when  he  broke  his  rival's 
weapon. 


118  STORIES 

Agostino,  standing  over  him,  let  him  feel  the  touch 
of  the  sword-point  at  his  throat. 

'  Whose  is  the  lady  now  ?  '  said  he. 

'  Mine."* 

For  a  long  moment  neither  moved.  All  the  life  in 
Michelels  veins  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in  the  one 
spot  where  he  felt  the  prick  of  the  steel. 

'  Once  more,  for  the  last  time,'  said  Agostino.  '  Whose 
is  the  lady  now  ?  ' 

*  Mine.' 

'  Then,'  said  the  other,  '  you  are  worthy,  and  I  will 
take  you  to  her.     Come  ! ' 

Too  much  surprised  to  speak,  Michele  rose  and 
followed,  and  Agostino  led  him  to  the  clearing  among 
the  trees. 

There  lay  the  lady. 

Michele  turned  to  Agostino. 

'  Has  she  spoken  ? ' 

'  I  have  never  heard  her  voice.' 

He  flung  himself  upon  the  ground,  his  whole  frame 
shaken  with  the  violence  of  his  grief.  Then  he  turned 
angrily  to  Agostino. 

'  You  have  killed  her  ! '  he  cried. 

For  all  his  answer  Agostino  drew  forth  the  letter,  and 
put  it  into  Michele's  hand. 

'  She  was  so  weary  that  she  could  not  live,'  he  said. 
'  She  did  not  know  the  way.  She  wandered  hither  and 
thither,  seeking  to  reach  Florence.  Here,  of  her  weari- 
ness, she  died.  Look  at  her  little  dog  !  The  creature 
is  half  starved.' 

Michele  gave  back  the  letter,  nor  did  he  speak  for 
many  minutes. 

'O  Agostino!'  he  cried  at  last,  'if  you  had  only  seen  her!' 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HILLSIDE  119 

Agostino  did  not  answer.  He  was  longing  to  be  alone 
again. 

'  Since  death  has  taicen  her  from  both  of  us ' 

Michele  stooped,  as  though  to  kiss  her,  but  the  other 
man  drew  his  sword  and  held  it  between. 

'  No,'  he  said  briefly,  '  not  that.' 

There  was  something  dangerous  in  his  look. 

Michele  raised  himself  and  uncovered  his  head. 

'  To-morrow,"  he  said,  '  we  will  do  her  the  last  honours. 
She  was  a  lady  of  birth."" 

Agostino  bowled. 

The  sun  was  all  but  sunk  behind  the  mountains, 
when  he  took  the  dog  in  his  arms,  and  rode  back  to  the 
last  village  that  he  had  left  outside  Florence. 

The  stars  were  bright  when  he  returned  on  foot  alone, 
and  a  strong  sweet  scent  breathed  from  the  pines.  He 
drew  the  ring  from  his  finger,  and  placed  it  solemnly  on 
hers  with  solemn  words. 

Then  he  lay  down  beside  her  in  the  darkness. 

Whether  he  dreamt  awake  or  sleeping,  he  did  not 
know,  but  all  that  night  he  spent  in  dreams,  that  she, 
sleeping  her  sleep  unbrokenly,  dreamed  also  of  him. 

He  had  brought  with  him  the  few  things  that  were 
needful. 

Before  the  sky  was  grey  with  dawn  he  dug  her  grave. 
Before  he  laid  her  in  it,  as  he  looked  at  her  for  the  last 
time,  he  bent  and  kissed  her  on  the  eyelids  twice. 

*  For  I  have  never  seen  her  eyes,'  he  said. 

The  birds  began  to  sing  as  he  smoothed  the  earth 
over  her. 


120  STORIES 


[1898] 

THE  SNOW  IS  COMING  ^ 

It  is  a  long  while  since  anything  happened  in  this  world 
for  the  first  time.  The  first  time  the  sun  shone — the 
first  time  the  snow  fell — these  things  are  not  matter  of 
record.  By  good  luck,  the  first  time  is  always  recurring, 
especially  in  London.  What  Londoner  does  not  re- 
member the  first  time  the  sun  shone  again  after  a  fog 
that  lasted  a  week  "^  And  when  the  first  snow  falls  the 
cockneys  do  not  take  it  as  if  they  were  country  folk. 
Strange  excitement  comes  over  them  at  the  mere  thought 
of  sooty  London  dressed  in  white.  A  few  go  about 
quoting  Mr.  Robert  Bridges,  who  alone  of  poets  has 
understood  them  on  this  point ;  and  the  rest  quote  him 
without  knowing. 

I  had  not  accounted  to  myself  for  it ;  but  an  unusual 
stir  in  my  blood  moved  me  to  run,  to  shout,  or  sing,  or 
behave  in  a  manner  that  might  have  caused  the  police 
to  interfere,  as  I  went  along  the  streets  one  evening  in 
early  winter.  The  gas-lamp  is  in  itself  a  signal  for  the 
enjoyment  of  Londoners.  They  may  be  half  asleep  all 
day,  but  with  the  yellow  dawning  of  those  myriads  of 
stars  a  glow  of  warmth  quickens  them.  So  much  the 
better,  if  there  should  be  a  moon  to  make  faces  among 
the  chirnney-tops  !  (There  was  a  moon  that  night.)  If 
'  From  The  Cornhill,  December  1898. 


THE  SNOW  IS  COMING  121 

the  snow  be  on  the  way,  and  the  air  tense  with  the 
expectation  of  it,  the  nerves  awake  and  sting  the  languid 
soul  into  pleasure, 

I  turned  down  a  poor  alley  to  visit  an  acquaintance 
there — an  Essex  woman  who  talks  about  '  threadling"* 
her  needle,  and  supposes  the  plural  of  'house'  to  be 
*  housen.'  She  is  married  to  a  sailor  who  sails  the  seas 
no  more.  He  sometimes  tries  to  explain  to  me  the 
geography — or  seagraphy — of  a  ship.  I  never  under- 
stand it,  but  I  have  learned  to  talk  about  '  the  ryals ' 
and  *  the  main-topgallon,'  whatever  that  may  be. 

'The  snow  is  coming ! ""  I  said  to  his  wife,  with  as 
much  exultation  as  if  I  said  '  The  Queen  is  coming  ! '' 

'  Yes,  miss,' she  said, 'and  coals  is  one-and-threepence 
a  hundred,  and  they  '11  go  up.'     She  glanced  at  the  sky. 

What  a  pity  it  is  to  have  a  financial  interest  in  the 
weather  !  I  felt  ashamed  because  I  had  none.  I  remember 
Mrs.  Ewing's  heroine,  who  poked  the  fire  '  expensivelv,' 
and  sighed  a  little — and  smiled  also — to  think  that  I 
could  poke  mine  as  often  as  I  liked.  Then  I  went  to  the 
South  Kensington  Museum,  to  look  for  a  spinning-wheel. 

The  policeman  and  the  man  at  the  entrance  were 
divided  in  their  minds  as  to  whether  a  spinning-wheel  is 
a  piece  of  furniture  or  a  machine.  If  it  is  a  piece  of 
furniture,  yes,  you  will  find  it  there  !  If  it  is  a  machine, 
no,  you  will  never  find  it  unless  you  go  across  the  road. 
Not  feeling  inclined  to  go  across  the  road,  I  chose  to 
consider  it  furniture. 

Past  one  half  and  then  the  other  of  the  column  of 
Trajan,  through  the  old  tapestry-room,  down  the  narrow 
corridor  of  snow-men  and  snow-women  bequeathed  to  us 
by  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  I  went ;  and  reached  at  last 
the  place  where  chairs  and  tables,  and  beds  and  cabinets 


122  STORIES 

and  mirrors,  ranged  with  forlorn  regularity,  show  what 
beautiful  homes  people  had  once.  There  was  never  a 
spinning-wheel  among  them,  I  listened  for  the  ghostly 
hum  of  it  in  vain. 

Tired  out  after  a  long  search,  I  sat  down  to  rest  on  the 
pedestal  of  a  cupboard. 

The  gallery  was  quite  deserted,  except  for  a  woman  of 
middle  age,  who  seemed  willing  neither  to  go  nor  to  stay. 
Something  fidgety  and  wistful  about  her  compelled  one 
to  notice  her  movements.  She  went  to  and  fro  with 
rapid,  uncertain  steps,  making  indefinite  pauses  before 
the  object  of  her  consideration — trying  to  leave  it,  as 
it  were — alwavs  returning.  The  magnetic  force  that 
attracted  her  seemed  to  reside  in  a  wooden  cradle.  There 
was  nothing  particular  about  it ;  it  was  not  like  the 
cradle  of  the  Earl  of  Derwentwater,  which  stood  near  by 
— three  black  feathers  that  had  once  been  golden  still 
waved  stiffly  over  the  head.  It  was  just  a  wooden  cradle 
— nothing  more,  nothing  less.  Yet  she  came  back  again 
and  again,  as  if  she  could  not  tear  herself  from  the  spot. 
She  was  a  well-favoured  person,  fresh  and  weather-beaten, 
as  though  she  had  lived  much  in  the  open  air.  Her 
dress  was  so  neat  that  the  shabby  material  of  it  did  not 
at  first  strike  the  eye  ;  would  not  perhaps  have  struck 
me  at  all  but  for  the  fact  that  she  wore  woollen  gloves. 
She  was  clearly  a  single  woman  ;  I  could  have  told  that 
bv  the  vague  suddenness  of  motion  which  is  common  to 
those  who  are  much  by  themselves,  and  have  not  to  think 
of  disturbing  other  people  in  the  room. 

'  You,  here  ! '  she  said,  addressing  a  policeman  as  he 
went  by.  '  Mine  is  much  better  than  that,'  and  she 
pointed  to  the  cradle.  Her  accent  was  good,  but  she 
spoke  rather  too  loud  for  a  lady. 


THE  SNOW  IS  COMING  123 

'Indeed,  Miss?'  said  the  guardian  of  law  and  order, 
witli  great  politeness.  He  knew  as  well  as  I  did  that  she 
was  Miss  and  not  Mrs. 

'Mine  is  old;  it's  been  in  our  family  from  father  to 
son,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,'  she  went  on.  '  The 
iMuseum  \s  given  £6  for  that.  Do  you  think,  now,  they 
would  give  me  .i?6  for  mine?  The  carving  on  mine's 
much  better.  I  know,  because  I'm  an  artist.  That's 
not  good  art  at  all.     Now  mine's  Elizabethan.' 

'  Maybe,  Miss.  Couldn't  say.  We  ain't  got  but  one 
or  two  specimens.' 

'  I've  half  a  mind  to  do  it,'  she  said,  in  quick,  excited 
tones.  '  It's  awfully  cold.  I  believe  the  snow's  coming. 
I  'm  sick  to  death  of  London  lodgings ;  there  isn't  room 
to  swing  a  cat  in  them.  I  'd  better  by  half  have  a  fire  to 
sit  by.  And  I  could  always  come  and  see  the  cradle 
here,  couldn't  I  ?  They  wouldn't  take  it  away  ?  I  could 
always  come  and  see  it  ?  I  could  come  and  see  it  every 
day  if  I  liked.' 

The  policeman  reassured  her  as  to  this,  and  moved  on. 
Now,  I  thought,  she  would  surely  go.  But  she  did  not. 
She  waited  until  the  policeman  was  out  of  sight,  when 
she  took  a  biscuit  from  her  pocket  and  began  to  eat  care- 
fully and  furtively,  making  as  few  crumbs  as  possible.  It 
was  her  afternoon  tea,  I  supposed,  and  she  was  taking  it 
here  for  the  sake  of  the  warmth. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  I  began.  '  I  heard  you  say  just 
now  that  you  had  a  beautiful  old  cradle.  I  happen  to 
know  a  lady  who  is  fond  of  such  things.  I  feel  sure  that 
she  would  give  you  i?10  if  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to 
dispose  of  it  to  her.' 

'  No,'  she  said,  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  '  I 
wouldn't  part  with  it,  not  to  any  private  individual.     It 


124  STORIES 

was  my  mother's,  and  my  mother^'s  mother-s  before  her. 
I  wouldn't  let  it  go  except  to  here.  And  I  wouldn't  do 
that,  only  the  snow 's  coming.  But  I  can  come  and  see 
it  here  every  day — every  day — ^just  as  if  it  was  in  my 
own  room.' 

There  was  a  refreshing  absence  of  gratitude  about  her ; 
she  did  not  even  say  '  Thank  you.'     I  turned  away. 

The  streets  were  brighter,  the  air  tingled  more  fiercely 
than  ever  as  I  went  home ;  but  I  felt  glad  no  longer 
because  the  snow  was  coming;. 


THE  CITY  OF  BYBLOS  125 


[1S90] 

THE  CITY  OF  BYBLOS 

'  Ich  liabeeiiieii  kurioscu  Respect  vor  dem  Biicliermaclien,  weil 
icli  ini  Lebeii  iiie  eius  macheu  konnte. ' — Micuakl  Haui'tmanx. 

It  lies  behind  a  large  lending  library.  When  I  had 
walked  through  several  miles  of  novels,  I  came  at  last 
to  the  City.  It  had  a  very  remarkable  appearance,  for 
the  houses  were  built  entirely  of  books.  Very  pretty 
houses  they  were  too  (though  somewhat  square),  the 
colouring  bright  and  varied,  the  name  of  the  owner  in 
gold  letters  over  every  door.  In  the  midst  of  them 
stood  a  vast  Cathedral,  every  stone  of  which  was  a  work 
on  Theology.  A  number  of  very  uneven  Steps  to  the 
Altar  led  up  to  it.  I  must  say,  it  looked  rickety,  for 
not  one  of  the  stones  exactly  fitted  the  other,  but  strange 
to  say,  they  told  me  the  sj)ire  was  the  safest  part. 
Standing  far  down  below,  I  naturally  could  not  see  the 
names  of  books  so  far  above  me,  but  I  was  told  that 
those  of  the  most  elevated  chai-acter  had  by  a  natural 
process  risen  to  the  top ;  the  Weathercock  had  veered 
about  considerably  in  early  life,  but  had  now  for  a  long 
time  pointed  due  South.  There  was  much  to  admire  in 
the  Architecture.  The  Lives  of  the  Saints  would  have 
made  exquisite  Gothic  doorways,  but  that  they  con- 
tradicted each  other  so  much  in  detail.  The  gargoyles, 
which    were    cut    out   of   controversial    pamphlets,   were 


126  STORIES 

making  diabolical  faces,  but  the  stained-glass  windows, 
being  the  work  of  poets,  were  exquisitely  transparent, 
and  formed  indeed  the  most  harmonious  part  of  the 
Cathedral.  The  East  window  had  been  painted  by 
Keble,  and  round  the  border  ran  this  legend :  The 
Christian  Year.  I  got  in  with  some  difficulty.  The 
dust  that  was  flying  about  almost  choked  me,  and  I 
found  it  quite  impossible  to  do  more  than  speculate  as 
to  the  construction  of  the  interior.  However,  as  it 
seemed  to  be  of  no  particular  Age  or  Style,  that  mattered 
the  less. 

'We  think   it  our  duty  to   tell   you '    began  the 

Cathedral,  all  the  books  speaking  at  once.  But  they 
all  spoke  very  loud,  and  they  all  said  something  quite 
different,  so  that  at  last,  unable  to  distinguish  anything 
in  such  a  Babel,  I  walked  sorrowfully  away. 

'Why  can't  you  keep  them  quiet?'  I  said  to  the 
Verger,  a  decent-looking  man,  clothed  in  black,  who 
had  opened  the  door  for  me  with  a  Kcij  to  the  Interpreta- 
tion of  TJie  Holy  Scripture. 

'  It's  all  very  well  to  talk,'  he  said  despondently,  '  but 
they  are  the  most  ill-mannered  books  in  the  world.  They 
can't  endure  each  other.  I  assure  you,  when  any  repairs 
have  to  be  executed,  the  row  is  ([uite  deafening.  Only 
a  year  or  two  ago,  when  one  of  the  buttresses  showed 
signs  of  giving  way,  and  we  propped  it  up  with  Farrar's 
Eternal  Hope.,  they  made  such  a  noise,  that  I  thought 
they  would  have  brought  the  whole  building  about  our 
ears. — It's  very  odd  though,'  he  continued,  'I  let  in  a 
man  the  other  day,  and  when  he  came  out  again,  he 
told  me  he  heard  them  all  singing  the  Hallelujah  Chorus, 
but  when  I  asked  the  books  about  him  afterwards,  they 
said  he  was  a  Jew,  Turk,  Infidel  and  Heretic' 


THE  CITY  OF  BVBLOS  127 

'They  are  the  very  strangest  books  in  the  world,'  I 
said,  giving  him  sixpence.  '  Thank  you.  AVhich  is  the 
main  thoroughfare  ?  ^ 

'  Whichever  you  like,'  he  rejoined.  '  It  really  doesn't 
matter  in  the  least.  But  most  people  think  it 's  through 
the  Cathedral.' 

I  knew,  however,  that  if  I  ventured  to  cross  the  thresh- 
old the  Cathedral  would  begin  talking  again,  and  besides 
I  considered  the  Verger's  last  remark  very  professional, 
so  I  left  him  on  the  steps,  and  diving  into  a  side  alley, 
went  my  own  way,  without  asking  any  one  else's.  It  is  a 
curious  place.  Every  house  is  a  shop,  and  every  other 
inhabitant  is  a  Sandwich  Man.  The  brothers  and  sisters 
of  the  Sandwich  Men  keep  the  shops,  and  as  it  is  all  done 
in  a  family  way,  the  profits  are  enormous.  They  have  a 
few  first  cousins,  who  are  conjurers,  and  I  came  upon  one 
of  these  at  the  first  street  corner  I  turned.  He  was  his 
own  Sandwich  Man,  and  he  was  shouting  at  the  top  of 
his  voice  :  '  Tricks  of  the  trade  !  Tricks  of  the  trade  ! 
Tricks  of  the  trade  !  A  peimy  for  my  thoughts  !  A  penny 
for  my  thoughts  !  Who'll  buy  .'' '  whereupon  he  immedi- 
ately sat  down  on  a  mat  and  vanished.  '  A  penny  for 
your  thoughts  indeed  ! '  I  said  contemptuously  ;  '  I  don't 
think  much  of  that.  Mr.  Isaacs  taught  it  me  long  ago.' 
The  performance  took  ])lace  in  Queer  Street,  just  outside 
a  very  odd-looking  shop  with  a  number  of  hearts  hung 
up  in  the  window. 

'There's  a  great  demand  for  them  just  now,'  said  the 
shopman,  '  specially  women's.  Mrs.  Carlyle's  is  a  fortune. 
Keats's  fetched  a  good  price  some  little  while  ago. 
Shelley's  was  said  to  be  too  light ;  didn't  realise  anything 
like  Harriet's  and  Mary  Wollstonecraft's.  I  've  heard  it 
denied  that  Wordsworth  ever  had  any  to  speak  of,  but 


128  STORIES 

that 's  not  true,  for  I  sold  it  myself  over  this  very  counter. 
George  Eliofs  was  large  but  not  juicy.  Charlotte  Bron ' 

'  Oh  hush !  "*  I  said,  interrupting  him,  '  it  really  does 
distress  me  very  much.  I  have  heard  of  a  lady  long  ago, 
who  *'  locked  her  heart  in  a  gowden  case,  and  pinned  it 
wi'  a  siller  pin."  Are  there  no  ladies  who  do  this  now,  or 
no  gentlemen  to  keep  the  key  of  the  case  for  them  ? ' 

'  No,'  said  the  shopman,  '  they  mostly  put  them  into 
envelopes,  and  the  gentlemen  break  them  open.  One  or 
two  may  have  been  kept  in  diaries  here  and  there,  but 
that  ""s  not  so  common.' 

'  I  never  did  approve  that  fashion  of  wearing  your  heart 
on  your  sleeve,  for  all  the  daws  to  peck  at,'  I  observed. 

'  You  don't  understand,'  rejoined  the  shopman, 
'  They  're  not  alive,  my  dear  Sir.  The  Dead  Heart  is 
a  stock  piece  everywhere.' 

'  I  remember  a  fair  Queen  of  France,'  I  said,  following 
up  the  dim  ])oetical  association  of  certain  words,  '  whose 
dead  heart  was  really  locked  in  a  golden  case,  with  these 
words  inscribed  on  it : — 

Eu  ce  petit  vais.seau 
De  fill  or  et  moude 
Repose  uu  plus  ^i-and  coeur 
Que  oncque  dame  eut  au  monde. 

'  She  was  a  Queen  of  Hearts  in  her  day,  but  I  never 
heard  that  she  let  any  one  into  her  own.' 

'  Indeed,'  cried  the  shopman  eagerly,  '  it  must  be  very 
valuable.  Could  you  give  me  an  idea  where  it  is  to  be 
found  ? ' 

'  Why,  no  ! '  said  I,  '  I  couldn't.  But  you  can  have  7ny 
heart  if  you  like.  It 's  very  tender.  How  much  are  you 
prepared  to  offer  ':! ' 

'  Thank  you,  sir,'  replied   the  shopman   politely,  but 


THE  CITY  OF  BYBLOS  129 

rather  coldly,  '  it  wouldn't  be  of  the  sliohtest  use,  at  least 
not  while  you  Ve  alive,  you  know.  Besides,  I  couldn't 
take  your  word.  If  it  Is  so  very  tender,  you  may  have  lost 
it,  and  then  I  should  make  a  better  bargain  with  some  one 
else.     I  don''t  sav  you  wish  to  deceive.'' 

Considering  this  last  remark  impertinent,  we  left,  my 
heart  and  I. 

The  next  shop  was  full  of  little  bottles  containing  a 
pale  grey  liquid,  and  a  signboard,  with  '  Old  Morality "" 
printed  on  it  in  very  big  letters,  swung  to  and  fro  over 
the  door.  I  felt  confused.  '  Surely  it  must  be  "  Old 
Mortality"  spelt  wrong,'  I  thought,  'they  read  so  much 
in  this  city,  that  they've  forgotten  how  to  spell,'  but  no 
such  thing. 

'Taste  and  try, 
Before  yoti  Ituy,' 

said  the  shopman  unctuously. 

'  It 's  not  very  good,'  I  said,  making  a  wry  face. 

'  No  ? '  he  returned  in  an  inquiring  tone.  '  That 's 
because  the  bottle  you  tasted  came  from  Paris.  Gallic 
Salt  they  call  it.  Some  people  say  it 's  not  Morality  at 
all.  Kept  too  long.  Gone  bad,  you  know.  But  the 
French  declare  it's  the  real  thing,  and  they're  the  best 
chemists  in  the  world.  They  say  it's  too  strong  to  go 
down  everywhere,  but  only  the  other  day  I  heard  some 
young  English  ladies  were  taking  it  in  the  form  of 
Lectures.^  Try  a  little  Russian.  You  '11  find  it  very  good, 
mixed  with  steel.     Tolstoi's  recipe  is  the  best.' 

'  No,  thank  you,'  said  I.  I  had  had  enough  of  the 
French.  '  Do  you  find  it  answers  from  a  business  point 
of  view,  to  keep  a  shop  of  this  kind  ? ' 

^  See  Prospectus  of  King's  College  Lectures  to  Ladies  for  the  last  term 
of  1889. 

I 


130  STORIES 

'Mine,'  said  the  Apothecary,  puffing  himself  out  to  his 
proudest  proportions,  '  mine  is  the  most  thriving  business 
in  Queer  Street.  Small  doses  sell  best  of  all.  You  don't 
want  too  much  of  it  in  a  book,  you  know,  but  a  little  you 
must  have.  It 's  the  vinegar  in  the  salad.  Of  course 
there  are  people  who  make  books  without  it,  but  unless 
they  happen  to  be  Ouida,  it  doesn't  pay.  And  even 
Ouida  would  have  sold  much  better,  if  she'd  only  had 
a  dash  of  it.  Try  our  celebrated  Milk  and  Water 
Morality.  It 's  as  sweet  as  sugar  ;  children  like  it.  You 
don't  look  very  strong.  You  won't  be  happy  till  you 
get  it.  The  authoress  of  We  Two  writes,  '  /  Jiiid  it 
invaluable.'' 

I  shook  my  iiead  and  touched  a  little  bottle  of  pills. 

'  Those  are  the  bitter  pills  of  Melancholy,'  he  explained, 
'  But  they  're  not  much  the  fashion  now.  Iron 's  the 
thing.     "  A  tonic  sadjiess,"  and  all  that,  you  know.' 

As  I  was  not  in  the  humour  for  a  tonic  sadness,  I  left 
the  shop.  A  big  Menagerie  was  coming  down  Queer 
Street.  Lions  and  tigers,  warranted  to  sell  again  admir- 
ably, might  be  booked  for  Christmas,  I  was  informed. 
Fairies  were  on  view  within,  and  there  was  a  witch  or 
two. 

'  But  I  can't  recommend  them,  sir,'  said  the  literary 
Barnum,  shaking  his  head.  '  They  're  not  what  they  used 
to  be.  The  race  has  degenerated  sadly.  Even  an  infant  of 
two  years  old  don't  believe  in  them  any  longer.  As  for 
trees  that  isn't  trees,  and  shadows  with  eyes  to  them,  and 
that  sort  of  performance,  there  's  only  George  MacDonald 
can  do  it,  and  you  can't  keep  them  on  stock  for  one 
customer.  Mr.  Anstey  bought  a  Black  Poodle  here  the 
other  day ;  I  can  show  you  the  exact  ditto,  if ' 

But  at  this  moment  a  Polar  Bear  broke  loose  from  the 


THE  CITY  OF  BYBLOS  131 

Menagerie,  and  caused  considerable  commotion  among 
the  Sandwich  Men,  who  began  rushing  hither  and  thither 
in  wild  alarn). 

'  It's  very  provoking,\said  the  Manager,  arming  him- 
self with  a  lasso.  '  Can  you  w  ait  a  moment  ?  I  shall 
have  to  go  after  that  animal.  He's  sure  to  get  into  some 
book  he's  not  intended  for,  and  then  there'll  be  the 
deuce  to  pay.  He  '11  be  wanted  all  over  the  place  for 
Voyages  to  the  North  Pole  and  the  first  chapters  of  Lives 
of  Lord  Nelson,  in  a  week  or  two,  and  he 's  a  dead  loss  to 
me  if  I  can't  catch  him.  Good  gracious  me  !  The  beast  '11 
be  into  that  china  shop  ! ' 

This  last  observation  was  levelled  at  the  head  of  a 
wild  bull,  who  had  taken  advantage  of  the  ungenerous 
conduct  of  the  Polar  bear,  to  effect  his  escape  like- 
wise. 

'I'll  look  after  the  bull,'  said  I.  'You  tackle  the 
bear.' 

It  seemed  the  kindest,  though  not  the  bravest  thing  to 
do.  By  the  time  I  had  reached  the  china  shop,  however, 
the  wild  bull  was  gone,  and  the  shopman  was  sitting, 
like  Marius  at  Carthage,  in  the  midst  of  a  heap  of  ruins, 
the  fragments  of  a  bit  of  Sevres  porcelain  in  his  hand. 

'If  you  want  any  more  Ballades  in  Blue  China,''  he 
observed  savagely,  '  you  must  sing  them  yourself.' 

'I  suppose  you  think  I'm  Andrew  Lang,'  I  returned, 
'  but  I  'm  not.' 

'  I  never  supposed  you  were  anything  of  the  kind,'  said 
this  rudest  of  the  inhabitants  of  Byblos. 

'  Oh,  Austin  Dobson  !  Austin  Dobson,  oh  !  To  think 
such  a  thing  should  have  happened  in  an  old-established 
shop  that  was  an  old-established  shop  in  the  days  of 
Charles  Lamb  ! ' 


132  STORIES 

I  left  him  there  lamenting,  and  passed  on.  As  the 
next  shop  had  Modes  et  Robes  over  the  door,  I  thought 
it  must  be  more  of  a  place  for  ladies,  and  was  about  to 
go  further,  when  the  Modiste  herself  came  out  and 
implored  me  to  enter.  She  sold  the  most  incongruous 
costumes  quite  impartially.  Frocks  for  girls  just  out  of 
the  schoolroom,  suits  of  armour  a  la  Vandyke,  the 
tempestuous  petticoats  of  the  danseuse,  the  hat  and 
gaiters  of  the  Dean,  were  here  mingled  together  in 
picturesque  confusion,  and  just  as  I  was  about  to  express 
my  surprise,  I  heard  a  cry  of  '  Old  Clo,'  and  a  wild  and 
weary  man  with  a  hooked  nose  came  in,  and  upset  a 
number  of  helmets  and  battle-axes  on  to  the  floor. 

'  But  the  latest  fashion  is  IT^S,'  said  the  Modiste, 
'  plain  black  with  very  long  ruffles.  Mr.  R.  L.  Stevenson 
bought  some  here  the  other  day,  and  expressed  himself 
very  well  satisfied;  he  said  they  became  the  Master  of 
Ballantrae  admirably.  You  don^t  happen  to  have  one 
of  your  heroes  with  you?  We  are  at  liberty  just  now, 
and  I  should  be  happy  to  accommodate  him.  There's 
a  fitting-room  upstairs,  and  you  can  have  tea  while 
you  wait.' 

'  Alas  !  ■■  I  said,  '  I  have  seen  many  heroes,  but  I  could 
never  make  one." 

'  Couldn't  you  really  ? '  said  the  dressmaker  sympatheti- 
cally. '  Well  now,  suppose  you  try  !  It 's  not  in  the 
least  difficult,  provided  you  have  good  clothes.  The 
clothes  are  half  the  battle.  Why,  a  bunch  of  feathers 
will  do,  so  you  arrange  them  properly.  I've  known  a 
hero  that  was  a  very  great  success  with  no  more  clothes 
on  than  that.  He  hadn't  a  stitch  of  lace  to  bless  himself 
with.  But  lace  is  very  much  worn  still.  There  was 
quite  a  rage  for  it  after  the  first  appearance  of  Mr.  John 


THE  CITY  OF  BYBLOS  133 

Inglesant.  Rags  are  fashionable  too — for  the  East  End. 
We  Ve  got  a  rag  and  bone  department  next  door.  But 
perhaps  you  'd  rather  get  your  hand  in  on  a  heroine. 
They  're  as  easy  as  easy  !  There  must  be  a  certain  style 
about  the  hero,  even  if  he  does  wear  plain  black,  but 
there  needn't  be  any  whatever  about  the  heroine,  in  fact 
it  makes  her  all  the  more  charming  to  have  none. 
What  can  be  prettier  than  a  simple  white  muslin  ? 
Gentlemen's  ladies  always  wear  white  muslin,  and  ladies' 
gentlemen  black  velvet.  Or  if  you'd  prefer  a  little  more 
trimming,  what  do  you  say  to  a  satin  cloak — of  the  very 
faintest,  palest  wood-beetle  green?'  Ifs  very  effective, 
if  you  give  the  young  lady  "  ashen  hair."  If  she  follows 
it  up  well,  and  has  "a  glove-like  waist  that  seems 
without  a  wrinkle  and  made  of  whitest  kid,"  and  if 
"  her  shoulders  peep  more  snowy  "  over  it,  I  should  also 
advise  a  frothy  train  of  rippling.  That  would  be  enough 
to  get  her  into  the  best  magazine  going.  No  ?  Well, 
we've  got  a  lot  of  baby-linen  over  from  Paris,  too.  I 
expect  Monsieur  Alphonse  Daudet  in  every  minute.  But 
would  you  like  to  have  first  choice  .'*  There 's  a  very 
good  toyshop  over  the  way;  you'll  find  the  baby-dolls 
extremely  cheap.  There's  a  sale  going  on  just  now. 
And  they  can  walk  and  talk,  and  shut  their  eyes,  and 
do  everything.' 

Too  thankful  to  escape  from  the  Modiste  on  any 
pretence,  I  dashed  across  the  street  into  the  toyshop. 
It  was  very  gay  indeed  outside,  the  walls  consisting 
wholly  of  the  covers  of  children's  books,  but  within  it 
was  anything  but  lively.  There  was  a  whole  row  of 
Little  Lord  Fauntleroys  sitting  in  arm-chairs,  with  one 
of  their  legs  tucked  under  them,  and  looking  unutterably 
bored. 


134  STORIES 

'  Are  you  a  bloodthirsty  tyrant  ? '  they  all  said  with 
the  sweetest  smile,  putting  their  legs  down  with  one 
accord. 

I  had  almost  said,  '  What  a  very  impertinent  little  boy 
you  are,  to  ask  such  a  question  ! '  but  they  did  it  with 
such  engaging  innocence  that  I  was  quite  disarmed,  and 
besides,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  half  a  dozen 
Sarah  Crewes,  who  were  trying  to  get  the  orphan  out 
of  Our  Mutual  Friend  to  play  with  them.  But  the 
orphan  seemed  inclined  to  be  anything  rather  than 
Sarah  Crewe''s  mutual  friend. 

'  No,"*  he  said,  with  the  air  of  a  child  more  tlian 
double  his  age,  '  I  \e  got  to  die  so  soon,  it  really  is 
not  worth  while.  Besides,  what  ""s  the  use  of  it .'' 
Nobody  ininds  in  the  least.  I  'm  not  a  fashionable 
little  boy  any  longer."" 

Here  he  began  to.  die  straight  off  in  front  of  me. 
Unable  to  endure  the  sight,  I  turned  away,  but  it  was 
only  to  read  in  the  pathetic  eyes  of  twenty  little 
Leonards  the  Story  of  their  Short  Lives. 

'  Boots  and  black  beetles  ! ""  I  cried — it  was  an  oath 
that  I  remembered  to  have  seen  in  a  work  adapted  for 
the  young,  so  I  was  not  afraid  of  shocking  them. 
'  What  a  horrible  place  this  is !  Are  there  no  children 
alive  anywhere  ? '' 

'  Oh,  but  we  're  much  more  touching  when  we  die ! ' 
they  said  in  eager  chorus,  '  and  we  sell  so  much  better  ! ' 

'  I  was  misunderstood  besides,"'  added  the  most  moving 
of  the  whole  lot.  '  You  're  misunderstanding  me  now. 
I  ""m  going  to  die."* 

'  Oh,  please  don't ! '  I  entreated ;  but  his  eyes  had 
already  begun  to  close,  and  a  deathly  pallor  overspread 
his  countenance. 


THE  CITY  OF  BYBLOS  135 

'There  are  soniG  children  that  never  die  round  there,'' 
he  said  faintly,  pointing  to  another  department,  and  a 
few  minutes  afterwards  he  expired. 

I  was  much  tempted  to  stay  and  speak  to  Gavroche, 
whom  I  had  noticed  playing  with  a  gun  on  the  doorstep, 
but  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Froggy  and  his  little 
brother  prevented  me,  and  before  I  had  time  to  get  out, 
a  cheerful  little  girl  with  long,  wavy  curls  ran  up  to  me, 
and  said  abruptly  : 

'How  does  the  wind  look  when  it  doesn't  blow?' 

'  j\ly  dear,'  I  said,  '  you  may  ask  interesting  questions, 
but  you  have  a  strong  American  accent,  and  I  'm  sure  I 
shouldn't  know  how  to  manage  you.  You  will  find 
everything  that  you  need  to  know  about  the  wind  in 
The  Child's  Guide  to  Useful  Knowledge,  and  whatever  is 
not  in  The  Child's  Guide  to   Useful  Knoidedge,  no  little 

girl  should  want  to "" 

But  here  another  little  girl,  exactly  like  the  first,  except 
that  she  was  not  at  all  cheerful,  suddenly  flung  herself  into 
my  arms,  and  bursting  into  sobs,  exclaimed  passionately  : 

'  When  will  you  come  back  again, 
Papa,  Papa?' 

'Didn't  I  do  it  nicely?'  she  added  the  next  minute, 
smiling  at  me  through  her  tears.  '  Will  you  engage  me, 
and  put  me  into  a  book  ? ' 

'  Very  nicely  indeed,'  I  replied,  '  I  almost  wish  I  really 
were  your  papa  and  could  come  back  again,  but  as  I  'm 
not,  and  as  I  haven't  the  least  desire  to  put  you  into  a 
book,  I  think  you'd  better  get  down,  my  dear.' 

I  set  her  on  her  feet,  and  again  turned  to  the  door, 
but  was  again  withheld  by  all  the  Little  Lord  Fauntleroys, 
who  said  plaintively  :  '  Won't  you  put  me  into  a  book, 


136  STORIES 

and  let  us  be  naughty  just  for  once  ?  We  don't  know 
what  it 's  Hke.     It  would  be  something  quite  new.' 

'  My  lords ! '  I  said  sternly,  for  I  beheld  in  them  the 
future  aristocracy  of  England,  'you  don't  know  what 
you're  asking.  Lords  never  are  naughty,'  and  I  departed. 
I  heard  the  voice  of  a  baby  that  could  only  just  speak, 
remarking,  'I'se  Popsy-Wopsy'  somewhere  around  my 
feet,  and  babies  of  that  age  are  specially  calculated  to 
drive  bachelors  mad.  There  were  two  shops  over  the 
way,  one  bearing  the  inscription  Howells  and  James, 
where  I  understood  from  the  advertisements  there  were 
several  good  heroines  on  view,  and  one  for  the  sale  of 
language.  '  Wardour  Street  English  is  cheap  to-day,'  I 
read  over  a  bundle  of  the  sort  of  expressions  that  begin 
with  '  By  my  halidome  ! '  '  Useful '  was  stuck  up  over  a 
packet  of  remarks  in  French,  German,  and  Italian,  the 
grammar  of  which  certainly  never  cost  any  one  much. 
'  Very  moderate '  on  a  parcel  of  the  very  moderate  number 
of  quotations,  without  which  it  is  apparently  impossible 
to  produce  either  a  volume  of  sermons  or  a  modern 
romance.  The  sight  of  '  Nature  red  in  tooth  and  claw  ' 
scared  me  away  at  once. 

I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  enter  Howells  and  James's, 
it  sounded  too  much  like  a  shop  I  knew  already.  There 
were  a  good  many  hei'oes  and  heroines  standing  idle 
in  the  market-place,  but  I  did  not  take  to  any  of 
them,  though  several  of  them  off'ered  themselves  on 
advantageous  terms. 

'  Where  are  the  rest  of  you  ? '  I  said  ;  '  you  are  not  all 
here.     I  miss  "  the  old  familiar  faces."' 

'  They  've  been  turned  out  to  grass,'  responded  a 
stray  baronet,  '  they  thought  it  would  keep  them  fresher. 
They're  sitting  on  a  hundred  gates  all  round  a  square 


THE  CITY  OF  BVBLOS  137 

Held  until  tli(."y  Ve  wanted  again,  because  they  've  got 
no  style.  There  was  a  paper  about  it  in  The  Cornhill. 
You  ouglit  to  have  known  that,  if  your  reading  had  been 
up-to-date/ 

I  considered  him  nearly  as  rude  as  the  owner  of  the 
china  shop,  but  at  that  moment  my  attention  was 
distracted  by  the  passing  of  a  processi(m  of  four  of  the 
Sandwich  Men,  carrying  two  beautiful  books  on  litters. 
They  were  both  very  white,  but  I  thought  that  was 
simply  due  to  the  fact  that  they  were  bound  in  parch- 
ment, until  I  heard  some  one  say  that  one  of  the  books 
had  been  murdered  and  the  other  seriously  hurt.  The 
men  who  had  ciiarge  of  the  book  that  was  still  alive  set 
down  their  burden  at  the  door  of  a  hospital,  where  it  was 
taken  in  by  kind  nurses,  and  put  to  bed  in  a  great  big 
ward  with  several  others,  whereupon,  to  my  great  surprise, 
they  all  began  to  talk  at  the  tops  of  their  voices. 

'Will  it  recover.''''  I  said  in  an  awestruck  whisper. 

'Well ! '  said  one  of  the  nurses,  'it's  been  badly  wounded 
by  the  critics,  but  I  think  it  11  do  if  we  can  only  talk 
long  enough  and  loud  enough.  They  always  die  of 
neglect  in  the  end — never  of  wounds.' 

'  And  how  long  will  it  be,  supposing  it  does  recover .'' ' 

'Oh,  three  months  in  town  perhaps,  and  six  in  the 
country,' said  the  cheerful  nurse.  '  But  it's  in  a  critical 
state  just  now,  and  you  really  must  not  interrupt  me.' 

She  began  to  talk  again  as  hard  as  she  could,  and  I 
stopped  my  ears,  and  ran  away  out  of  the  hospital,  down 
the  street  after  the  murdered  book.  They  carried  it 
outside  the  walls  to  a  great  desolate  cemetery,  where 
nothing  grew  but  faded  laurel.  If  I  had  done  no  other 
work  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  existence,  I  never  could 
have  counted  the  graves  that  it  contained.     There  was 


138  STORIES 

not  a  single  monument,  not  a  stone  over  any  one  of 
them.  I  remembered  the  nurse's  words :  '  They  always 
die  of  neglect.'  There  was  not  even  a  wreath  of 
everlastings  anywhere  to  be  seen.  Here  and  there  in 
odd  corners  men  with  long  nails  were  scratching  in  the 
ground  like  ghouls. 

'  Those  are  the  antiquaries,"  said  the  gravedigger, '  they 
come  here  pretty  often,  and  sometimes  they  unearth  a 
thing  or  two,  but  not  much.  It  is  believed  that  treasure 
does  exist  in  the  shape  of  buried  wisdom.  But  how  dieth 
the  wise  book  ?  As  the  foolish,  and  there 's  a  deal  of  folly 
buried  here.  They're  very  busy  over  the  Elizabethan 
corner  just  now.' 

I  turned  away,  sick  at  heart,  and  quitted  the  cemetery. 
A  broad  road  went  past  it,  and  I  walked  along  it  for  some 
time,  until  I  happened  to  meet  a  Sandwich  Man,  and  asked 
him  where  it  led  to. 

'Down  to  the  river  of  Lethe,' he  said,  'you're  quite 
close  to  it  now,  but  you  could  never  hear  it,  it  flows 
so  silently.  Some  people  call  it  the  stream  of  Time, 
but  the  old  name  is  the  best.  They  say  it  will  flood 
the  cemetery  by  and  by.  All  the  books  get  there 
sooner  or  later,  only  a  few  of  them  make  the  tour  of 
the  world  first.  Most  of  them  take  the  direct  road,  as 
you  see.' 

They  were  hurrying  past  me  as  he  spoke,  big  books, 
little  books,  serious  and  frivolous,  pretty  and  ugly,  wise 
and  ridiculous,  they  were  all  wobbling  along  as  fast  as 
they  could  go,  down  to  the  river. 

'  Stop,  stop ! '  I  cried.  (There  were  so  many  that  I 
knew  amongst  them,  and  they  had  been  such  good 
friends  to  me  !  Only  one  or  two  that  I  had  never  read, 
and  the  very  names  of  which  were  unknown  to  me,  were 


THE  CITY  OF  BYBLOS  139 

going  leisurely  the  other  way.  I  redoubled  my  exertions 
to  save  my  friends.) 

'Come  back,  come  back!'  I  cried,  'you'll  all  be 
drowned  !     Make  the  tour  of  the  world  first ! "" 

Rut  not  one  of  the  books  seemed  to  hear  me,  and  a 
thing  in  twenty-nine  editions  bumped  itself  up  against 
me,  screaming  out,  '  I  'm  the  successful  book  of  the 
season.     I  shall  be  there  first.     Hootity-tootity-too  !  ^ 

I  felt  so  much  annoyed  with  the  silly,  conceited  thing, 
that  I  held  my  peace,  and  then,  out  of  the  varying  cries 
around,  out  of  the  distant  shouts  of  the  Sandwich  Men, 
out  of  the  washing  of  the  waves  of  Lethe,  there  rose  a 
warning  voice  that  said  in  words  that  I  had  heard  long 
ago  in  my  childhood,  '  Of  making  many  books  there  is 
no  end.' 


140  STORIES 


THE  CONSCIENTIOUS  SECRETARY 

There  lives  in  Bond  Street  a  Secretary,  a  little  pale, 
gentle  man,  with  long  thin  fingers  and  eyes  that  see 
nothing  close  to  them.  Every  one  likes  him,  but  no  one 
keeps  him  long.  He  is  never  out  of  employment,  for  he 
is  always  engaged  as  soon  as  he  appears,  but  he  has  a 
new  master  every  few  weeks.  No  one,  however,  says  any- 
thing against  him.  His  testimonials  would  fill  a  volume  : 
everywhere  it  is  stated  that  his  handwriting  is  excellent, 
his  character  a  perfect  model. 

'  Why  then  did  you  not  keep  him  ?''  I  inquired  of  his 
thirty-first  employer,  a  solid,  red-faced  business  man, 
comme  il  y  en  a  tant.  For  some  reason  or  other,  he  did 
not  like  answering  my  question.  He  rose — put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets — went  over  to  the  window,  looked  out  at 
nothing — whistled — came  back  again.  He  is  of  those 
who  are  obliged  to  tell  the  truth  because  they  have  no 
imagination.     I  had  only  to  wait. 

'  Because,''  he  said,  '  he  always  dots  his  Ts  and  crosses 
his  fs  twice  over.  I  wouldn't  say  anything  against  him 
for  .^100,  you  know.  He's  the  best  little  fellow  in  the 
world.  But  he  always  dots  his  I's  and  crosses  his  t\ 
twice  over.' 

'  What  can  be  the  reason  of  such  an  odd  habit  ? '  I 
asked. 


THE  CONSCIENTIOUS  SECRETARY       141 

My  friend  sighed. 

'  He  says  it 's  for  the  ^ood  of  posterity.  We  don't  see 
so  well  as  our  grandfatiiers  did,  and  our  grandchildren 
won't  see  so  well  as  we  do,  and  we  are  bound  to  give 
them  every  chance.  He  would  rather  not  dot  an  i  at  all 
than  not  dot  it  twice  over.  I  dare  say  he  is  right.  We 
think  too  little  about  the  future  nowadays.  But  it  takes 
time,  and  time  is  money.' 

When  my  friend  says  '  Time  is  money,'  he  thinks  he 
has  said  everything  there  is  to  say  about  time.  The  rest 
of  the  employers  think  j  ust  the  same. 


142  STORIES 


[1907] 
CATS  IN  COUNCIL 

Two  cats  were  once  enjoying  The  Merchant  of  Venice 
together. 

One  was  a  stage  cat.  The  actors  and  actresses  were 
very  fond  of  her,  and  she  often  sat  in  the  prompter's 
box,  on  first  nights  especially. 

'  I  acted  once  myself ! '  she  said  in  a  confidential 
whisper  aside  to  her  friend.  '  It  was  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet.  I  have  every  sympathy  with  young  love,  and  all 
my  warmest  feelings  are  stirred  when  the  jeune  premier 
knows  how  to  climb  like  a  cat,  as  Romeo  does.  But  they 
talked  about  a  lark  and  a  nightingale  until  my  mouth 
watered.  It  always  does,  you  know,  when  I  hear  people 
say  "  What  larks ! '"'  I  thought  there  really  must  be  a 
bird  or  two  in  that  very  stiff  green  tree  that  grows  out- 
side all  the  windows  in  Verona  :  so  I  ran  across  the  stage 
as  fast  as  ever  I  could.  You  have  no  conception  of  what 
it  is  to  be  on  the  stage.  I  never  knew  before  what 
nervousness  was.  All  those  opera-glasses  fixed  upon 
one,  all  those  restless,  flashing  human  eyes  !  But  I  was 
a  succes  fou.  With  one  scrabble  of  my  paws,  without 
even  blotting  a  line,  I  changed  a  tragedy  into  a  comedy. 
Every  one  laughed — even  Romeo  and  Juliet,  poor  dear 
young  things ! ' 

'  Ah ! '  said  the  parlour  cat,   who   came  from   South 


CATS  IN  COUNCIL  143 

Kensington,  and  had  attended  Shakespeare  Readings. 
She  thought  it  rather  a  vulgar  story  really. 

Still  they  were  both  cats  of  superior  education,  and 
a  good  play  was  an  intellectual  treat  to  both.  It  was 
caviare  to  them  in  tlie  sense  in  which  a  good  play  was 
caviare  to  the  Prince  of  Denmark,  not  to  the  general. 

'  V^ery  odd,'  said  the  patroness  of  the  stage,  '  how 
much  there  is  in  the  work  of  Shakespeare  that  is  of  the 
deepest  interest  to  cats.  I  sometimes  think  he  must 
have  been  a  cat  himself.  Every  inch  of  fur  on  my  tail 
stands  on  end  when  I  hear  the  sentinel  say,  as  he  walks 
up  and  down  at  Elsinore,  "  Not  a  mouse  stirring ! " 
I  know  the  little  wretches.  Depend  upon  it,  there 
were  six  at  least  in  the  cellarage  under  his  very  nose, 
if  he  had  only  sniffed.  Hamlet  knew  that  well  enough. 
"  A  rat — a  rat  in  the  arras  ! "  That  was  what  he  was 
thinking  of  the  whole  time.  That  was  why  he  went 
mad.  It  is  a  very  strange  thing  that  the  critics  should 
never  have  thought  of  it.  He  had  so  much  of  the  cat 
in  him,  had  Hamlet ! ' 

'  If  they  had  half  the  sense  of  smell  that  we  possess, 
everything  would  have  been  found  out  long  ago,'  said 
the  parlour  cat.  '  To  my  mind.  The  Merchaiit  of 
Venice  was  written  entirely  to  prove  that  men  are 
not  aware  of  the  value  of  cats.  When  Shylock  says 
that  some  men  cannot  bear  "a  humble,  necessary  cat" 
any  more  than  a  harmless  necessary  Jew,  he  says  a  thing 
that  must  go  straight  to  the  heart  of  every  cat,  from 
the  first  cat  that  caught  fish  in  Egypt  downwards.' 

'  I  disagree  with  you  there,'  said  the  stage  cat.  *  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  our  first  ancestress,  who  is  now 
drinking  the  cream  of  Paradise,  came  from  Persia.' 

'  You    may   be    right,'  said    the   parlour   cat,   with    a 


144  STORIES 

magnificent  wave  of  her  tail,  and  a  velvet  claw  half 
unsheathed.  '  We  were  talking  about  Shakespeare,  I 
think.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  the  "  green-eyed 
monster"  must  have  been  a  very  big  cat  that  was  called 
jealousy  ?  The  word  green  proves  it,  without  a  doubt. 
Who  ever  saw  a  green-eyed  dog  or  a  green-eyed  horse  ? 
"  Monster"  is  very  gratifying  also.  It  is  amazing  to  find 
what  an  idea  men  have  of  our  size.  Lord  Roberts,  for 
instance  !  He  cannot  sit  in  the  room  with  me.  He  is  a 
little  man,  of  course.  He  has  conquered  a  great  many 
other  men,  of  course  ;  but  he  cannot  conquer  his  aversion 
to  cats.  It  must  be  because  he  thinks  they  are  so  big. 
He  can't  dislike  green,  as  he  comes  from  Ireland.' 

'  I  thought  we  were  talking  about  Shakespeare," 
murmured  the  stage  cat  suavely.  Her  eyes  were  not  so 
good  a  green  as  those  of  the  parlour  cat. 

The  parlour  cat  stared  at  her  for  five  minutes  without 
blinking,  and  then  pretended  nothing  had  been  said,  and 
went  on  where  she  left  off. 

*  A  harmless,  necessary  cat ! '  she  said.  '  O  my  dear, 
how  pathetic  it  is ! ""  II  liy  a  pas  de  chat  necessaire. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  necessary  cat,  not  even 
though  Shakespeare  thought  there  was !  We  can  all 
be  dispensed  with,  even  the  best  rat-catcher  amongst  us. 
I  buried  a  friend  of  mine  the  other  day,  a  gentleman 
most  eminent  in  his  profession,  and  what  do  you  think  ? 
They  replaced  him  next  day  with  a  mouse-trap ! ' 

'  Did  they  indeed  ?  "*  said  the  stage  cat,  with  deep 
sympathy,  '  The  play  in  Hamlet, '  the  play  that  was 
written  in  very  choice  Italian,  if  you  remember,  was 
called  The  Mouse  Trap.''  Shakespeare  knew,  what 
man  better  ?  that  everything  goes  wrong  in  a  family 
where  they  have  mouse-traps  instead  of  cats.  He  was  a 
cat  himself,  I  feel  quite  sure  of  if 


ESSAYS 


[1884] 

HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  i 

The  world  is  getting  daily  more  democratic,  and  it  is 
possible  that  we  may  soon  arrive  at  that  golden  age  of 
Socialists  and  Quakers  which  is  to  turn  us  all  into 
Citizen  this,  and  Friend  the  other.  Still  there  are  cer- 
tain members  of  the  aristocracy  who  will  never  even  then 
be  asked  to  don  the  boimet-roiige,  who  will  still  exist  to 
remind  a  free,  equal,  and  fraternal  world  that  there  were 
once  such  things  as  kings  and  princes,  and  such-like  futile 
distinctions  between  man  and  man.  Their  crowns  will 
be  as  fresh  then  as  on  the  day  they  wore  them  first,  their 
courts  as  noble  as  before ;  for  they  cannot  be  got  to  talk 
the  vulgar  tongue,  and  they  shall  live  for  ever  and  ever, 
these  grand  aristocrats,  most  of  whom  never  lived  at  all. 

Strange  that  a  prince  who  can  make  dukes  by  the 
dozen  for  the  five  years  of  his  lifetime,  should  after  that 
be  at  the  mercy  of  a  king-maker,  whose  style  is  generally 
plain  Mr.,  and  who  can  make  nothing,  not  even  money  ! 
Yet  so  it  is,  and  the  poet  king-makers  are  very  tyrannical 
in  their  choice  of  candidates. 

Who  is  Shakespeare's  ideal  monarch  ?  Not  Alfred  the 
Good,  who  first  taught  England  how  to  read ;  not 
Edward  i.,  who  made  her  feel  that  the  strength  of  her 
strength  was  unity,  but  that  expensive  hero  who  plunged 
her  into  one  of  the  most  unjustifiable  and,  in  the  end, 
1  From  T/iC  Theatre,  September  1884. 


148  ESSAYS 

most  fatal  wars  she  ever  undertook,  to  satisfy  his  own 
hungry  ambition. 

Queens  in  all  ages  and  amongst  all  classes  have  been 
popular ;  as  theirs  will  probably  be  the  last  of  all  titles 
to  die  out  in  the  actual  world,  so  theirs  is  the  first  in  the 
world  of  poetry  and  plays.  By  the  grace  of  William 
Shakespeare,  Esq.  (and  others),  they  are,  and  always  will 
be.  Queens,  Defenders  of  the  Faith,  within  their  dominions 
supreme. 

Others  there  are  too,  not  less  noble,  Indies  in  the  great 
sense  of  the  word,  on  whom  their  two  lumdred  years  and 
odd  sit  lightly,  who  claim  the  homage  due  to  them  as 
justly  now  as  in  the  days  of  old,  and  prominent  among 
these  is  the  wonderful  lady,  whom  AVebster  imaged  to 
himself  somewhere  about  the  year  1612,  and  whom  he 
called,  in  default  of  any  Christian  name  that  could 
properly  express  her,  simply  the  Duchess — '  The  Duchess 
ofMalfi.' 

The  age  of  ugly  heroines  had  not  set  in  when  she  was 
born.  We  see  her  first  as  a  young  and  beautiful  widow, 
hated  by  her  grasping  and  envious  brothers.  Prince 
Ferdinand  and  the  Cardinal,  distrusted  by  her  mean,  sus- 
picious courtiers,  loved  only  by  the  very  few  who  knew 
her  well.  As  to  her  relations  with  her  dead  husband, 
Webster  observes  a  significant  silence.  Shakespeare 
would  almost  certainly  have  noticed  them,  and  shown 
how  they  re-acted  on  the  true  crisis  of  her  life,  just  as  he 
touched  on  Romeo's  sentimental  love  for  Rosaline,  before 
he  saw  Juliet ;  but  Webster  leaves  us  to  draw  our  own 
conclusions  from  the  bare  fact  that  he  says  nothing — 
good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  It  is  often  so  with  him  ;  he 
leads  us  to  infer  whatever  it  does  not  suit  him  to  express, 
and  his  principal  figures  stand  out  all  the  more  clearly 


HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  149 

for  their  dark  background.  He  is  reticent  even  about 
his  hero,  the  steward,  unwilling  to  put  him  forward,  lest 
the  Duchess  should  suffer  so  much  as  a  momentary 
eclipse.  Excepting  for  his  beautiful  description  of  her 
in  Act  I.,  Antonio  speaks  seldom  and  briefly  ;  enough  to 
show  us  that  he  is  a  perfect  gentleman,  and  not  enough 
to  show  us  much  more,  but  for  certain  wonderfully  fine 
little  touches,  in  which  the  love  that  he  keeps  under  lock 
and  key  peeps  forth  and  will  not  be  hidden.  We  can 
fancy  the  eloquent  silence  of  such  a  man,  how  he  would 
throw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  Duchess's  accounts, 
and  keep  her  books  as  they  were  never  kept  before  ;  how 
she,  a  sensitive,  highly  strung  woman,  could  not  fail  to 
note  this  dumb  devotion,  and  rate  it  at  its  true  value. 
All  this  is  matter  of  long  standing,  when  the  play  begins. 
Webster  had  no  business  with  the  soft  uncertain  hints  of 
early  love ;  his  passions  are  all  grown-up,  like  his 
characters.  Young  though  she  be  in  years,  the  Duchess 
is  old  in  prudence,  and  in  that  absence  of  girlish  coquetry, 
which  leads  her,  knowing  that  Antonio  will  never  woo 
her  of  his  own  accord,  to  place  the  ring  herself  upon  his 
finger.  It  is  one  of  the  most  ungrateful  tasks  in  the 
world  to  depict  a  woman  making  the  first  advances  to  a 
man  ;  even  Shakespeare  achieved  a  very  doubtful  triumph 
with  such  a  character  as  Helena  in  AWs  Well  that  Ends 
Well. 

There  is  something  absolutely  repugnant  to  good  taste 
about  the  leap-year  lady.  All  the  more  wonderful  for 
its  refinement  is  the  scene  in  which  the  Duchess  of  Malfi 
declares  her  love.  All  the  struggles  that  it  cost  her,  all 
the  womanly  shame  wiiich  almost  chokes  her  utterance  at 
the  last  moment,  are  in  those  few  words,  spoken  to  her 
maid,  Cariola,  before  Antonio  enters. 


150  ESSAYS 

'  Good  dear  soul, 
Leave  me  ;  but  place  thyself  behind  the  arras^ 
Where  thou  mayst  overhear  us.     Wish  me  good  speed. 
For  I  am  going  into  a  wilderness 
Where  I  shall  find  nor  path  nor  friendly  clue 
To  be  my  guide.' 

She  had  told  no  one  what  she  meant  to  do,  driven  to  do 
it  by  the  intolerable  loneliness  of  her  position,  knowing 
that  even  Cariola  would  not  dare  to  approve  her — but  do 
it  she  must  and  would.  Pretending  that  she  wants  to 
make  a  will,  she  questions  Antonio  (rather  vaguely)  about 
the  state  of  her  finances. 

'  Ant.   I  '11  fetch  your  grace  the  particulars  of  your 

Revenue  and  expenses. 
DucH.  Oh,  you  're  an  upright  treasurer  ;  but  you  mistook. 

For  when  I  said  I  meant  to  make  inquiry 

What 's  laid  up  for  to-morrow,  I  did  mean 

What 's  laid  up  yonder  for  me. 
Ant.  Where .'' 

DucH.  In  Heaven, 

I  'm  making  my  will  (as  'tis  fit  princes  should) 

In  perfect  memory  ;  and  I  pray,  Sir,  tell  me 

Were  not  one  better  make  it  smiling  thus. 

Than  in  deep  groans  and  terrible  ghastly  looks, 

As  if  the  gifts  we  parted  with  procured 

That  violent  distraction  ? 
Ant.  Oh,  much  better. 

DucH.   If  I  had  a  husband  now,  this  care  were  quit.' 

Here  after  the  Elizabethan  manner,  they  fence  a  little 
with  puns  on  the  word  '  will,'  Antonio  counselling  her 
to  marry  again,  and  to  give  her  husband  all,  even  her 
*  excellent  self." 


HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  151 

'  DucH.  St.  Winifred,  that  were  a  strange  will. 
Ant.  'Twere  stranger  if  there  were  no  will  in  you 

To  marry  again. 
Ducn.  What  do  yon  think  of  marriage  .'' 

Ant.   I  take  it  as  those  that  deny  purgatory; 

It  locally  contains  or  heaven  or  hell. 

There  's  no  third  place  in  't. 
DucH.  How  do  you  affect  it  ? 

Ant.  My  banishment,  feeding  my  melancholy, 

Would  often  reason  thus. 
DucH.  Pray  let  us  hear  it. 

Ant.  Say  a  man  never  marry,  nor  have  children, 

W^hat  takes  that  from  him  ?     Only  the  bare  name 

Of  being  a  father,  or  the  weak  delight 

To  see  the  little  wanton  ride  a  cock-horse 

Upon  a  painted  stick,  or  hear  him  chatter 

Like  a  taught  starling. 
DucH.  Fie,  fie,  what 's  all  this  ? 

One  of  your  eyes  is  blood-shot ;  use  my  ring  to't. 

They  say  'tis  very  sovran ;  'twas  my  wedding  ring. 

And  I  did  vow  never  to  part  with  it 

But  to  my  second  husband. 
Ant.  You  have  parted  with  it  now. 

DucH.   Yes,  to  help  your  eyesight. 

Ant.  You  have  made  me  stark  blind. 

DucH.  How  ? 

Ant.  There  is  a  saucy  and  ambitious  devil. 

Is  dancing  in  this  circle. 


DuCH. 

Remove  him. 

Ant. 

How? 

DucH.  ' 

rhere  needs  small  conjuration  when  your  finger 

May 

do  it ;  thus  :  is  it  fit  ? 

[S/ie  puts  the  ri)i<>:  on  hisjiiiger. 

He  Kneels. 

Ant. 

What  said  you  ? 

DuCH. 

Sir! 

152  ESSAYS 

This  goodly  roof  of  yours  is  too  low  built ! 
I  cannot  stand  upright  in't,  nor  discourse 
Without  I  raise  it  higher.      Raise  yourself 
Or,  if  you  please,  ray  hand  to  help  you ;  so. 
Ant.  Ambition,  madam,  is  a  great  man's  madness 
That  is  not  kept  in  chains  and  close-pent  room, 
But  in  fair  lightsome  lodgings,  and  is  girt 
With  the  wild  noise  of  prattling  visitants. 
Which  makes  it  lunatic  beyond  all  cure. 
Conceive  not  I  'm  so  stupid,  but  I  aim 
Whereto  your  favours  tend  ;  but  he  's  a  fool 
That,  being  a-cold,  would  thrust  his  hands  in  the  fire 
To  warm  them. 

So  long  as  she  leaves  him  room  to  doubt  for  an  instant 
whether  she  can  live  without  him,  he  will  not  take 
advantage  of  her  confession.  In  generosity,  at  least,  he 
is  her  equal.     As  he  says  himself : — 

Were  there  not  heaven  nor  hell, 

I  should  be  honest ;  I  have  long  served  virtue, 

And  never  ta'en  wages  of  her. 

But  his  grave  and  noble  rejoinder  only  fires  her  still 
more,  and,  with  an  outburst  of  magnificent,  appealing 
scorn,  she  flings  all  vain  equivocation  to  the  winds  : — 

The  misery  of  us  that  are  born  great ! 

We  are  forc'd  to  woo,  because  none  dare  woo  us : 

And  as  a  tyrant  doubles  with  his  words. 

And  fearfully  equivocates,  so  we 

Are  forced  to  express  our  violent  passions 

In  riddles,  and  in  dreams,  and  leave  the  path 

Of  simple  virtue,  which  was  never  made 

To  seem  the  thing  it  is  not.     Go,  go,  brag 

You  have  left  me  heartless :  mine  is  in  your  bosom  ; 

I  hope  'twill  multiply  love  there :  you  do  tremble. 


HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  153 

Make  not  your  heai-t  so  dead  a  piece  of  flesh. 

To  fear  more  than  to  love  me  ;  Sir,  be  confident. 

What  is  it  distracts  you  ?     This  is  flesh  and  blood,  sir ; 

'Tis  not  the  figure  cut  in  alabaster 

Kneels  at  my  husband's  tomb.     Awake,  awake,  man, 

I  do  here  put  off  all  vain  ceremony. 

And  only  do  appear  to  you  a  young  widow. 

I  used  but  half  a  blush  in  't. 

Bless  Heaven  this  sacred  Gordian,  which  let  violence 

Never  untwine. 
Ant.   And  may  our  sweet  affections,  like  the  spheres. 

Be  still  in  motion. 
DucH.  Quickening,  and  make 

The  like  soft  music. 

It  would  be  difficult  anywhere  to  surpass  this  scene, 
beginning  with  delicate  raillery,  half  feigned  to  hide  the 
passion  underneath,  ending  in  words  that  leave  us  doubt- 
ful with  Cariola,  '  whether  the  spirit  of  greatness,  or  of 
woman,  reign  most  in  her."" 

The  second  act  is  the  weakest  and  least  interesting  in 
the  play.  The  sudden  illness  of  the  Duchess,  accom- 
panied by  other  untoward  circumstances,  raises  suspicion 
at  Court,  and  on  the  night  of  the  child's  birth  a 
treacherous  courtier,  Bosola,  who  has  sold  himself  to 
Prince  Ferdinand  and  the  Cardinal,  picks  up  a  scheme 
of  its  nativity  which  Antonio  had  carelessly  dropped. 
By  this  clumsy  expedient  the  brothers  are  made  aware 
of  their  sister's  condition,  though  still  ignorant  of  the 
child's  father.  It  seems  as  if  the  genius  of  Webster, 
overpowering  when  at  its  height,  lost  itself  in  the  petty 
details  of  an  intrigue  which  many  inferior  men  might 
have  rendered  less  cumbersome.  His  very  wealth  of 
imagination  stifles  him.     The  simplest  and  most  apparent 


154  ESSAYS 

things  cannot  be  discovered  without  an  altogether  dis- 
proportionate outlay  of  time,  tricks  and  trouble.  It  is 
like  cracking  a  walnut  with  the  proverbial  sledge-hammer. 
Nor  does  he  sufficiently  explain  the  envy  of  the  brothers, 
since,  even  had  their  sister  died  a  widow,  her  son  by  her 
first  husband  (whose  existence  seems  to  have  been  con- 
veniently forgotten  further  on),  must,  one  would  think, 
have  succeeded  to  the  dukedom.  Of  course  it  may  be 
said  that  Webster  wrote  in  the  first  place  for  the  stage, 
and  that  on  the  stage  effect  is  everything  and  causes 
matter  little  ;  but  it  is  certainly  strange  that  he  took 
no  pains  to  correct  this  and  other  inaccuracies  of  the 
same  kind,  when  '  The  perfect  and  exact  Copy,  with 
diverse  things  printed,  that  the  length  of  the  Play  would 
not  beare  in  the  Presentment,''  was  afterwards  given  to 
the  public. 

A  few  years  of  happiness  behind  the  curtain,  and  the 
tragedy  begins  again.  The  Duchess  is  now  the  mother 
of  three  children ;  strange  rumours  are  rife  about  her  in 
the  Court,  but  nothing  certain  has  yet  been  discovered,  and 
no  one  suspects  the  cold,  discreet  Antonio.  A  charming 
scene  of  light,  graceful  banter,  while  Cariola  is  brushing 
her  lady's  hair,  shows  us  how  free  they  are  from  any 
sense  of  peril.  While  she  is  still  speaking,  Antonio  steals 
away  unnoticed  into  an  inner  chamber,  taking  Cariola 
with  him,  for  the  fun  of  making  her  angry. 

DucH.   Doth  not  the  colour  of  my  hair  'gin  to  change? 
When  I  wax  grey,  I  shall  have  all  the  Court 
Powder  their  hair  with  arras  to  be  Hke  me. 
You  have  cause  to  love  me ;  I  entered  you  into  my  heart 
Before  you  would  vouchsafe  to  call  for  the  keys  .... 
For  know,  whether  I  am  doomed  to  live  or  die, 
I  can  do  both  like  a  prince. 


HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  155 

Siuldenly  Ferdinand  bursts  upon  her,  dagger  in  hand. 
She  meets  his  frantic  and  violent  abuse  with  a  cjuiet 
declaration  that,  as  she  is  married  already,  it  docs  not 
and  cannot  apply  to  her,  and  when  his  fury  rather 
inrceases  than  subsides,  she  tries  to  reason  with  him  in 
the  gentle  persuasive  tones  that  would  naturally  befit  a 
sister  pleading  with  an  angry  brother.  He  is  her  twin 
brother,  her  old  playfellow  ;  surely  to  him  she  may  speak 
as  she  would  deign  to  speak  to  no  one  else.  She  herself 
gets  a  little  angry,  only  a  little,  that  he  should  insult 
her,  as  if  she  had  committed  some  great  crime  by  follow- 
ing the  dictates  of  her  nature  : 

Why  should  only  I, 
Of  all  the  other  princes  of  the  world, 
Be  cased  up  like  an  holy  relic  ? 
I  have  youth  and  a  little  beauty. 

It  is  difficult  to  explain  Ferdinand's  excessive  brutality 
excepting  on  the  ground  that  he  is  rather  mad  already, 
and  the  audience  must  be  nearly  as  glad  as  the  Duchess 
when  at  length  he  rushes  from  the  room,  bidding  her 
expiate  her  dishonour  by  killing  herself  with  the  dagger 
that  he  leaves  behind  him.  Her  one  thought  is  how  to 
shield  Antonio.  She  will  dismiss  him  instantly  and 
roughly  from  her  service,  following  him  afterwards  in 
secret  as  soon  as  the  coast  is  clear.  She  has  just  time 
to  warn  him  before  Bosola  enters  the  room,  and  she 
begins  to  act — unfortunately  to  over-act — her  part, 
Antonio,  taking  the  cue,  submits  with  well-assumed 
dignity,  but  the  practised  courtier,  comprehending  the 
whole  situation  at  a  glance,  only  allows  him  to  escape 
that  he  may  win  the  heart  of  the  Duchess  by  his  pre- 
tended indignation  at  the  way  in  which  she  dismisses  her 


156  ESSAYS 

old  servant.  What  could  be  more  straightforward  and 
uncourtierlike  than  his  sharp  reproof? — 

For  know  an  honest  statesman  to  a  prince 

Is  like  a  cedar  planted  by  a  spring. 

The  spring  bathes  the  tree's  root,  the  grateful  tree 

Rewards  it  with  his  shadow ;  you  have  not  done  so. 

It  gains  the  Duchess  in  a  moment.  With  the  royal 
generosity  of  a  nature  that  can  do  nothing  by  halves, 
she  at  once  confides  to  him  everything,  and  yields  to  his 
treacherous  counsel  that  she  should  go  on  pilgrimage  to 
Loretto,  the  better  to  colour  her  flight.  There  is  a 
cunning  little  touch  of  character  in  Cariola''s  objec- 
tion : — 

In  my  opinion 
She  were  better  progress  to  the  baths  at  Lucca, 
Or  go  visit  the  Spa  in  Germany,  for,  if  you  will  believe 

me, 
I  do  not  like  this  jesting  with  religion. 
This  feigned  pilgi'image. 

The  maid  is  an  excellent  foil  for  the  mistress  every- 
where ;  timid  and  conventional,  where  she  is  bold  and 
independent ;  distrustful,  when  she  is  confident ;  able  to 
hope,  when  she  despairs ;  faithful  and  loving  always,  the 
very  type  of  an  ordinary  nature  desperately  bound  to 
follow  a  much  higher  one,  which  it  cannot  understand. 

Of  the  many  strange  things  in  this  play,  nearly  as 
original  in  its  faults  as  in  its  beauty,  tbe  scene  at  Loretto 
is  one  of  the  strangest — being  indeed  no  scene  at  all, 
but  merely  an  elaborate  dumb-show,  by  which  the 
Cardinal  and  various  other  people  decree  the  banishment 
of  the  Duchess   and  her   family   to   the  accompaniment 


HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  157 

of  '  a  ditty,"'  the  authorship  of  which  is  modestly  dis- 
claimed by  Mr.  John  Webster  in  the  mar<;in.  As  it  is 
not  a  very  striking  ditty,  we  are  not  surprised  at  this: 
but  the  marvellous  pathos  of  the  scene  which  follows  can 
only  heighten  our  wonder  that  he  should  have  turned 
what  might  have  been  the  central  point  of  his  drama 
into  a  mere  bit  of  pantomime.  Of  course  Bosola  over- 
takes the  fugitives,  and  the  Duchess  is  made  to  accompany 
him  back  with  two  of  her  children,  while  Antonio  and 
the  eldest  are  suffered  to  escape. 

DucH.   I  know  not  which  is  best. 

To  see  you  dead  or  part  with  you.     Farewell,  boy, 
Thou  art  happy  that  thou  hast  not  understanding 
To  know  thy  misery ;  for  all  our  wit 
And  reading  brings  us  to  a  truer  sense 
Of  sorrow.     In  the  Eternal  Church,  sir, 
I  do  hope  we  shall  not  part  thus. 

Ant.  Oh,  be  of  comfort. 

Make  patience  a  noble  fortitude. 
And  think  not  how  unkindly  we  are  us'd, 
Man  (like  to  cassia)  is  prov'd  best  being  bruis'd. 

DucH.   Must  I,  like  to  a  slave-born  Russian, 
Account  it  praise  to  suffer  tyranny .'' 
And  yet,  O  Heaven  !   thy  heavy  hand  is  in  't. 
I  have  seen  my  little  boy  oft  scourge  his  top. 
And  compar'd  myself  to  't :  nought  made  me  e'er  go  right, 
But  Heaven's  scourge-stick. 

Ant.  Do  not  weep. 

Heaven  fashion'd  us  of  nothing,  and  we  strive 
To  bring  ourselves  to  nothing.     Farewell,  Cariola, 
And  thy  sweet  armful.      If  I  do  never  see  thee  more, 
Be  a  good  mother  to  your  little  ones. 
And  save  them  from  the  tiger.     Fare  you  well. 

DucH.   Let  me  look  upon  you  once  more,  for  that  speech 


158  ESSAYS 

Came  from  a  dying  father.     Your  kiss  is  colder 

Than  that  I  have  known  an  holy  anchorite 

Give  to  a  dead  man's  skull. 
Ant.   My  heart  is  turned  to  a  heavy  lump  of  lead. 

With  which  I  sound  my  danger.      Fare  you  well. 
DucH.   My  laurel  is  all  withered. 

Can  we  not  hear  the  very  tones  in  which  they  speak, 
les  larmes  dans  la  voix,  she  with  her  books  and  flowers 
and  little  children,  he  with  his  masculine  dislike  of  tears, 
and  dim,  heavy  foreboding  of  worse  evils  to  come .'' 
Surely  the  fable  about  a  salmon  and  a  dog-fish  with 
which  the  act  concludes  must  have  been  one  of  those 
things  which  were  omitted  during  '  the  presentment.' 
What  actress  would  ever  risk  marring  the  effect  of  an 
intensely  pathetic  scene  by  such  a  queer  bit  of  humour 
as  this  ? — 

A  salmon,  as  she  swain  unto  the  sea. 

Met  with  a  dog-fish,  who  encounters  her 

With  his  rough  language :     Why  art  thou  so  bold 

To  mix  thyself  with  our  high  state  of  floods  } 

Being  no  eminent  courtier,  but  one 

That  for  the  calmest  and  fresh  time  of  the  year 

Dost  live  in  shallow  rivers,  rank'st  thyself 

With  silly  smelts  and  shrimps,  and  darest  thou 

Pass  by  our  dog-ship  without  reverence  .- 

O  (Quoth  the  salmon)  sister,  be  at  peace. 

Thank  Jupiter  we  both  have  passed  the  net. 

Our  value  never  can  be  truly  known 

Till  in  the  fisher's  basket  we  be  shown  : 

In  the  market  then  my  price  may  be  the  higher. 

Even  when  I  am  nearest  to  the  cook  and  fire. 

So  to  great  men  the  moral  may  be  stretched  : 

Men  oft  are  valued  high  when  they  are  most  wi-etched. 

We  cannot  imagine  that   the  gifted   Mrs.   Betterton, 


HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  159 

who  played  the  part  in  1678,  ever  allowed  herself  to  go 
so  far,  though  perhaps  Master  R.  Sharpe,  the  first 
Duchess  on  record,  may  have  managed  it. 

But  now  the  plot  thickens,  the  stage  grows  dark,  the 
voices  sink  to  a  whisper,  as  the  numbered  hours  pass 
quickly  on  to  doom.  Still  the  Duchess  bears  her  im- 
prisonment nobly,  still  her  brother's  cruelty  has  not 
availed  to  break  her  spirit.  If  she  will  not  die  naturally, 
she  must  be  tortured  to  death ;  so  much  the  better. 
Ferdinand  comes  to  visit  her  in  the  darkness  (having 
sworn  never  to  see  her  face),  and  holds  out,  for  her  lips 
to  kiss,  a  dead  hand,  which  he  feigns  to  be  that  of  her 
husband.  Bosola  shows  her  'behind  a  traverse'  the 
bodies  of  Antonio  and  her  children  ('  fram'd  in  wax,  by 
the  curious  master  in  that  quality,  Vincentio  Lauriola "'). 
No  cry,  no  lamentation  does  she  utter.  The  sight 
freezes  the  blood  in  her  veins,  she  cannot  faint,  nor 
weep  away  her  ice-bound  anguish ;  nothing  but  death 
can  help  her  : — 

Bos.  Come,  you  must  live.   .   .  . 

DucH.  Good  comfortable  fellow, 

Persuade  a  wretch  that's  broke  u{)on  the  wheel 

To  have  all  his  bones  new  set,  intreat  him  live 

To  be  executed  again.      Who  must  despatch  me .'' 

I  account  this  world  a  tedious  theatre, 

For  I  do  play  a  part  in  't  'gainst  my  will. 
Bos.  Come,  be  of  comfort,  1  will  save  your  life. 
DucH.   Indeed  I  have  not  leisure  to  attend 

So  small  a  business. 

I  will  go  pray.     No  :  I  '11  go  curse. 

She  speaks  wildly,  yet  with  a  certain  restraint  that 
never  lets  us  forget  she  is  '  Duchess  of  MalH  still."'  Once 
before,  when   she   was    helping    her  husband    to   escape. 


160  ESSAYS 

she  quoted  Tasso,  now  she  remembers  Portia.  In  her 
old  artificial  life  alone  in  the  Court,  books  had  been  her 
only  reality ;  now  in  the  tremendous  realities  of  her  own 
life  they  came  back  to  her.  Wonderful  indeed  is  this 
picture  of  a  mind  hovering  on  the  edge  of  madness,  yet 
still  intact : — 

DucH.  What  hideous  noise  was  that  ? 

Car.  'Tis  the  wild  concert 

Of  madmen,  lady,  which  your  tyrant  brother 

Hath  placed  about  your  lodging :  this  tyranny 

I  think  was  never  practised  till  this  hour. 
DucH.   Indeed  I  thank  him  ;  nothing  but  noise  and  folly 

Can  keep  me  in  my  right  wits,  whereas  reason 

And  silence  make  me  stark  mad ;  sit  down. 

Discourse  to  me  some  dismal  tragedy. 
Car.  O  'twill  increase  your  melancholy. 
DucH.  ■  Thou  art  deceived, 

To  hear  of  greater  grief  would  lessen  mine. 

This  is  a  prison  ? 
Car.  Yes  :  but  thou  shalt  live 

To  shake  this  durance  off. 
DucH.  Thou  art  a  fool. 

The  robin  red-breast  and  the  nightingale 

Never  live  long  in  cages. 
Car.  Pray  dry  your  eyes. 

What  think  you  of,  madam  ? 
DucH.  Of  nothing. 

When  I  muse  thus,  I  sleep. 
Car.  Like  a  madman,  with  your  eyes  open .'' 
DucH.   Dost  thou  think  we  shall  know  one  another 

In  the  other  world  ? 
Car.  Yes,  out  of  question. 

DucH.  O  that  it  were  possible  we  might 

But  hold  some  two  days'  confei'ence  with  the  dead, 

From  them  I  should  learn  somewhat  I  am  sure 


HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  161 

I  never  shall  know  here.     I  '11  tell  thee  ;i  miracle  ; 
I  am  not  mad  yet,  to  my  cause  of  sorrow. 
Th'  heaven  o'er  my  head  seems  made  of  molten  brass. 
The  earth  of  flaming  sulphur,  yet  I  am  not  mad  : 
I  am  acquainted  with  sad  misery, 
As  the  tanned  galley-slave  is  with  his  oar  ; 
Necessity  makes  me  suffer  constantly. 
And  custom  makes  it  easy.     Who  do  I  look  like  now  ? 
Car.  Like  to  your  picture  in  the  gallery  ; 
A  deal  of  life  in  show,  but  none  in  practice  : 
Or  rather  like  some  reverend  monument 
Whose  ruins  are  even  pitied. 

Even  yet  she  has  not  suffered  enough.  The  madmen 
are  let  loose  into  the  room  to  play  their  horrid  gambols 
before  her  sleepless  eyes,  and  deafen  her  with  their 
wild  songs  and  shrieks.  As  they  are  retiring,  Bosola, 
disguised  as  an  old  man,  enters  to  dig  her  grave. 
Apparently  she  recognises  him  after  the  first  moment, 
for  her  dignified 

Am  I  not  thy  duchess  ? 

would  seem  to  recall  the  former  passages  between  them. 
She  has  lost  all  sense  of  fear — nay,  even  of  that  solemn 
awe  which  sometimes  takes  the  place  of  fear  at  the  last 
hour.  Nothing  shows  the  intensity  of  her  grief  more 
than  her  complete  indifference  : — 

DucH.  And  thou  comest  to  make  my  tomb  ? 
Bos.  Yes. 

DucH.   Let  me  be  a  little  merry. 

Of  what  stuff  wilt  thou  make  it  ? 
Bos.  Nay,  resolve  me  first,  of  what  fashion  .'' 
DucH.  What !  do  we  grow  fantastical  in  our  death-bed  ? 

Do  we  affect  fashion  in  the  grave  ? 
Bos.    Most  ambitiously  ;  princes'  images  on  their  tombs  do 

not  lie   as    they    were  wont,   seeming    to    pray   up   to 

L 


162  ESSAYS 

heaven  ;  but  with  their  hands  under  their  cheeks  (as  if 

they  died  of  the  toothache).     They  are  not  carved  with 

their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stars ;  but  as  their  minds  were 

wholly  bent  upon  the  world,  the  self-same  way  they  seem 

to  turn  their  faces.  .  .  . 

[A  coffi,7i,  cords,  and  a  bell,  produced. 

Here  is  a  present  from  your  princely  brother, 

And  may  it  arrive  welcome,  for  it  brings 

Last  benefit,  last  sorrow. 
DucH.  Let  me  see  it. 

I  have  so  much  obedience  in  my  blood, 

I  wish  it  in  their  veins  to  do  them  good. 
Bos.  This  is  your  last  presence  chamber. 
Car.   O  my  sweet  lady. 
DucH.   Peace  ;  it  affrights  not  me. 

It  is  the  '  nothing  can  hurt  me  now  '  of  Marie  Antoinette. 
Calmly  she  listens  to  her  dirge,  assisting  at  her  own 
funeral  before  she  dies.  The  naive  horror  of  it  strikes 
chill,  like  a  deep  expression  on  the  lips  of  a  child  : — 

DIRGE 

'Hark,  now  everything  is  still  ; 

This  screech-owl  and  the  whistler  shrill. 

Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 

And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud. 

Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent ; 

Your  length  in  clay's  now  competent. 

A  long  war  disturb'd  your  mind, 

Here  your  perfect  peace  is  sign'd. 

Of  what  is  't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping  } 

Sin,  their  conception  ;  their  birth,  weeping. 

Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error. 

Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 

Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 

Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet ; 


HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  163 

And  (the  foul  fiend  more  to  check) 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck. 

'Tis  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day ; 

End  your  groan,  and  come  away. 
C\H.  HencCj  villains,  tyrants,  murderers:  alas! 

What  will  you  do  with  my  lady .''     Call  for  help. 
DucH.  To  whom  ?  to  our  next  neighbours  ?     They  are  mad 
folks ! 

Farewell,  Cariola. 

I  pray  thee  look  thou  giv'st  my  little  boy 

Some  syrup  for  his  cold  ;  and  let  the  girl 

Say  her  pray'rs  ere  she  sleep.     Now  what  you  please  ? 

What  death  ? 
Bos.  Strangling.      Here  are  your  executioners. 
DucH.  I  forgive  them. 

The  apoplexy,  catarrh,  or  cough  o'  the  lungs, 

Would  do  as  much  as  they  do. 
Bos.  Doth  not  death  fright  you  } 
DucH.  Who  would  be  afraid  on't, 

Knowing  to  meet  such  excellent  company 

In  th'  other  world  .-^ 
Bos.  Yet  methinks 

The  manner  of  your  death  should  much  afflict  you ; 

This  cord  should  terrify  you. 
DucH.  Not  a  whit. 

W' hat  would  it  pleasure  me  to  have  my  throat  cut 

With  diamonds .''  or  to  be  smothered 

With  cassia  ?  or  to  be  shot  to  death  with  pearls  ? 

I  know  deatli  hath  ten  thousand  several  doors 

For  men  to  take  their  exits  ;  and  'tis  found 

They  go  on  such  strange  geometrical  hinges 

You  may  open  them  both  ways  :  any  way  (for  Heaven's 
sake) 

So  I  were  out  of  your  whispering.     Tell  my  brothers 

That  I  perceive  death — now  I  'm  well  awake — 

Best  gift  is  they  can  give  or  I  can  take. 


164  ESSAYS 

I  would  fain  put  off  my  last  woman's  fault  ; 

I  'd  not  be  tedious  to  you. 

Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able  strength 

Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me. 

Yet  stay,  heaven's  gates  are  not  so  highly  arched 

As  princes'  palaces ;  they  that  enter  there 

Must  go  upon  their  knees.     Come,  violent  death, 

Serve  for  mandragora  to  make  me  sleep. 

Go  tell  my  brothers,  when  I  am  laid  out, 

They  then  may  feed  in  quiet. 

\They  strangle  her  kneeling.     Ferdinand  enters. 
Ferd.  Is  she  dead  .-* 

Bos.  She  is  what  you  would  have  her. 

Fix  your  eye  here. 
Ferd.  Constantly. 

Bos,  Do  you  not  weep  } 

Other  sins  only  speak,  murder  shrieks  out. 

The  element  of  water  moistens  the  earth. 

But  blood  flies  upwards  and  bedews  the  heavens. 
Ferd.  Cover  her  face — mine  eyes  dazzle — she  died  young. 

She  was  beyond  fear,  but  her  woman's  nerves  remained 
to  her ;  she  felt  they  must  give  way  if  the  strain  lasted 
much  longer.  She  had  borne  the  cries  of  the  madmen, 
but  she  could  not  bear  this  '  whispering '  about  her ;  it 
made  her  nervously  eager  for  the  last  horrible  moment. 
Rest,  rest  was  all  she  wanted ;  let  them  give  it  her 
quickly. 

A  modern  writer  would  have  had  the  play  end  here  in 
the  silence  and  darkness  of  the  chamber  of  death,  but 
Webster  and  Co.  were  not  artists  in  the  modern  sense  of 
the  word.  Their  villains  were  not  mere  bits  of  wicked- 
ness contrived  to  throw  into  relief  the  virtues  of  the 
innocent  and  then  sink  back  into  the  nothingness  from 
which  they  came,  but  flesh  and  blood,  and  as  such  to  be 


HER  GRACE,  THE  DUCHESS  165 

punished,  at  the  risk  of  outraging  the  moral  fecHngs  of 
the  audience.  Furthermore,  they  saw  that  after  any 
dreadful  deed  the  world  went  on  its  way  very  much  as 
usual ;  that  a  curtain  did  not  fall  for  ever  on  the  perpe- 
trators of  it ;  that  the  vacant  place  was  filled  up  some- 
how ;  and  it  was  this  great  truth  of  continuity  which  they 
sought  to  impress  by  leading  our  thoughts  on  to  the 
future.  It  shows  a  change  in  the  temper  of  the  English 
people  that  the  last  scene  of  Hamlet  should  never  be 
acted  now.  In  those  old  days  the  fall  of  a  monarch  was 
nothing  compared  to  the  fall  of  monarchy,  which  would 
have  thrown  too  deep  a  shadow  even  for  tragedy.  At 
any  cost  there  must  be  a  successor  to  the  throne.  The 
Duchess  of  Malfi  i\x\^h  both  these  conditions.  It  would 
be  tedious  to  follow  the  web  of  plot  within  plot  which 
gradually  brings  about  the  mutual  murder  and  assassina- 
tion of  the  Cardinal's  mistress,  of  Antonio,  of  the  Car- 
dinal himself,  of  Ferdinand,  and  of  Bosola,  but  there  is 
one  exquisite  scene  in  which  Antonio,  walking  uncon- 
sciously near  to  his  wife's  grave,  is  made  to  hear  the  echo 
taking  her  voice  : — 

Del.  Hark,  the  dead  stones  seem  to  have  pity  on  you, 

And  give  you  good  counsel. 
Ant.  Echo,  I  will  not  talk  with  thee, 

For  thou  art  a  dead  thing. 
Echo.  Thou  art  a  dead  thing. 
Ant.  My  Duchess  is  asleep  now. 

And  her  little  ones,  I  hope,  sweetly.     O  Heaven, 

Shall  I  never  see  her  more  ? 
Echo.  Never  see  her  more. 
Ant.   I  marked  not  one  repetition  of  the  Echo 

But  that ;  and  on  a  sudden  a  clear  light 

Presented  me  a  face  folded  in  sorrow  ! 
Del.  Your  fancy  merely. 


166  ESSAYS 

How  well  the  old  playwrights  understood  that  sense  of 
foreboding,  the  very  existence  of  which  many  people  in  a 
less  robust  age  are  willing  to  call  in  question  ! 

The  CardinaPs  last  soliloquy  over  his  Dante  has  a 
touch  of  grimly  irresistible  humour  that  reminds  one  of 
the  fantastic  devils  of  some  ancient  German  artist : — 

1  am  puzzled  in  a  question  about  hell. 

He  says  in  hell  there  's  one  material  fire, 

And  yet  it  shall  not  burn  all  men  alike. 

Lay  him  by.      How  tedious  is  a  guilty  conscience  ! 

When  I  look  into  the  fishponds  in  my  garden 

Methinks  I  see  a  thing  armed  with  a  rake 

That  seems  to  strike  at  me. 

On  the  whole,  my  Lord  Ferdinand,  with  his  laugh,  '  like 
a  deadly  cannon  that  lightens  ere  it  smokes,"*  is  excelled 
in  wickedness  by  my  Lord  Cardinal,  who  never  laughs  at 
all.  Ferdinand  had  the  grace  to  go  mad  after  his  sister's 
death  at  any  rate,  but  the  Cardinal  seems  to  have  felt  no 
ill  effects  whatever,  except  the  trifling  little  vision  afore- 
said. 

Quiet  and  brief  are  the  closing  words  of  this  great 
tragedy.  No  sentimental  moralising,  no  weak  appeal  to 
pity,  no  feeble  buttressing  about  of  virtue  with  paste- 
board-angels ;  by  her  own  right  she  stands. 

Mal.  Oh,  sir,  you  come  too  late. 

Del.  I  heard  so,  and 

Was  arm'd  for  't  ere  I  came.     Let  us  make  noble  use 

Of  this  great  ruin,  and  join  all  our  force 

To  establish  this  young  hopeful  gentleman 

In  's  mother's  right.     These  wretched  eminent  things 

Leave  no  more  fame  behind  'em  than  should  one 

Fall  in  a  frost,  and  leave  his  print  in  snow ; 


HER  GRACE  THE  DUCHESS  167 

As  soon  as  the  sun  shines,  it  ever  melts 

Both  form  and  matter ;  I  have  ever  thought 

Nature  doth  nothini^-  so  great  for  great  men 

As  when  she's  pleas'd  to  make  them  lords  ol' truth. 

Integrity  of  life  is  fame's  best  friend. 

Which  nobly  (beyond  death)  shall  crown  the  end. 

We  know  almost  nothing  of  the  life  and  death  of  John 
Webster.  No  monument,  however  humble,  rises  over  his 
tomb,  no  Mc  jacet  points  to  his  last  resting-place.  It 
was  Thomas  Middleton  who,  with  a  true  prescience  of 
the  things  that  pass  away  and  the  things  that  endure, 
wrote  over  his  friend's  '  maisterpeece  "■ : — 

Thy  Epitaph  only  the  'I'itle  bee, 

AVrite  Dutchesse,  that  will  fetch  a  teare  for  thee. 


168  ESSAYS 


[1886] 

ON  NOISES! 

It  is  an  open  question  whether  musicians  are  fonder  of 
noise  than  other  people.  They  themselves  would,  per- 
haps, answer  it  in  the  negative.  '  So  noisy  ! "'  is  considered 
one  of  tlieir  very  severest  verdicts;  and  if  an  unmusical 
person  happens  to  like  something  they  disapprove  of, 
they  will  often  give  this  as  the  reason,  being  apparently 
of  opinion  that  noise  has  nothing  to  do  with  music, 
properly  so  called.  Yet  what  is  music  itself  but  the 
art  of  making  a  refined -kind  of  noise,  subject  to  certain 
rules  ?  Music  which  can  be  only  taken  in  by  the  eye, 
and  is  audible  to  the  mind  alone,  remains  unintelligible 
excepting  to  a  few.  No  doubt  those  few  hear  melodies 
more  wonderful  than  any  that  ever  were  '  by  mortal 
finger  struck.'  I  have  heard  a  composer  say  that  the 
more  keenly  he  felt  the  delight  of  writing  out  the  music 
that  was  in  him,  the  more  keenly  he  disliked  the  instru- 
ments, which  were  a  kind  of  unhappy  mean  between  the 
pure  beauty  of  his  own  conception,  and  the  ignorance  of 
those  who  could  only  be  made  to  know  it  through  their 
ears.  We  need  not  much  regret  the  deafness  of  Beethoven  ; 
and  it  is  most  unnecessary  to  pity  Sebastian  Bach  because 
his  greatest  work  was  never  performed  during  his  life- 
time. Still,  it  remains  true  that  to  the  world  in  general 
music  that  is  not  heard  is  nothing.  It  might  just  as 
1  From  The  Musical  World,  i886. 


ON  NOISES  169 

well  not  exist.  Certainly  this  is  hard  on  the  composer. 
He  cannot  sj)eak  to  us  directly,  as  every  other  artist 
can  ;  he  must  speak  through  others,  and  his  best  speech 
may  fail,  because  others  (or  their  instruments)  have  not 
good  voices.  It  is  just  conceivable  that  in  future  ages 
men  may  come  to  read  music  as  many  of  them  have  come 
to  read  plays,  and  to  say,  with  a  superior  air,  '  Oh,  do 
you  really  like  to  go  and  hear  Fidelio  ?    It  is  so  vulgarised 

by (the  Tietjens  of  the  period),  I  much  prefer  to 

study  it  at  home.''  That  will  be  a  golden  age  for  com- 
posers, if  any  chance  to  exist ;  but  more  likely  they  will 
all  have  disappeared  just  as  the  ungrateful  world  is  ready 
to  do  them  the  most  absolute  justice.  Meanwhile,  let 
us  make  noises,  and  be  happy.  It  is  such  a  nice,  human 
thing — noise !  Surely  it  was  a  happy  dispensation 
which  married  it  to  the  most  abstract  of  all  the  arts. 
There  are  times  when  it  is  inconvenient;  there  are  times 
when  it  is  agonising.  The  squeak  of  a  slate  pencil,  a 
pig,  a  violin  in  the  hands  of  a  young  gentleman  of  tender 
age — one's  nerves  thrill  at  the  bare  recollection. 

Still,  taking  it  all  in  all,  what  should  we  do  without 
it?  Even  the  squeak  of  the  violin  is  dear  to  the  heart 
of  the  young  gentleman  who  perpetrates  it.  Even  the 
pig  finds  it  a  relief  to  his  feelings  to  express  them  in 
that  unutterably  hideous  sound.  The  slate  pencil  alone 
would  seem  to  be  equally  hated  of  gods  and  men.  People 
who  are  not  mothers  can  scarcely  be  expected  to  feel  it, 
but  it  is  actually  asserted  on  credible  authority,  that  the 
sweetest  music  to  a  mothers  ear — even  if  she  has  a  good 
one — is  the  cry  of  her  newborn  infant.  And  the  cries 
of  people  in  the  streets,  who  were  not  infants,  delighted 
that  quietest  of  spirits,  Charles  Lamb. 

True,  there    was    one    man,   Schopenhauer,   the   grim 


170  ESSAYS 

philosopher,  who  hated  women,  who  hated  noises  also — 
did  not  merely  pretend  to  hate  them  as  some  do,  but 
hated  them  with  a  good,  honest,  downright  hatred.  He 
said  they  murdered  his  thoughts.  He  accused  them,  also, 
of  murdering  the  thoughts  of  five  other  great  people,  viz., 
Brentano,  Kant,  Goethe,  Lichtenstein,  and  Jean  Paul. 
He  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  complaints  of  them  were 
to  be  found  in  the  biographies  or  personal  recollections 
of  almost  all  great  writers.  His  description  of  the  suffer- 
ings he  underwent  from  the  cracking  of  whips  would  melt 
the  heart,  even  of  a  cabman.  He  said  it  cut  right 
througli  his  meditations,  like  a  sword  dividing  the  head 
from  the  body.  '  That  such  an  infamous  thing  should 
be  tolerated  in  any  town  is  barbarous  and  unjust  in  the 
extreme ;  all  the  more,  as  it  could  easily  be  avoided  by 
ordering  the  police  to  see  that  there  was  a  knot  at  the 
end  of  every  lash.  .  .  -.  If  I  were  in  authority,  I  would 
establish  a  permanent  nexus  idearum  between  the  crack- 
ing of  whips  and  flogging,  in  the  heads  of  the  drivers.'' 
Poor  Schopenhauer !  Was  it  not  enough  for  him  to  see 
everything  en.  )ioir,  but  must  he  hear  it  en  noir  also  ? 
The  violent  slamming  of  doors  also  troubled  him  greatly. 
He  would  have  sympathised  with  that  printer  who,  not 
being  acquainted  with  the  expression  '  banging  gales,'  as 
applied  to  rent,  misprinted  a  sentence  in  one  of  the  news- 
papers, '  The  cause  of  all  the  mischief  in  Ireland  is  the 
banging  gates.'' 

Infinite  silence  hath  a  magnificent  sound  also  in  the 
mouth  of  Carlyle,  but  if,  in  a  future  life  he  should  be 
found  inhabiting  the  Moon  Circle  of  Paradise,  that 
absolutely  soundless  sphere,  he  will  perhaps  have  modified 
his  opinions.  Outside  our  own  selves,  there  is  nothing 
so    pleasant,    so   genial,  so    friendly,    as   a   noise.      The 


ON  NOISES  171 

sounds,  even  more  than  the  sights  we  are  accustomed 
to;  the  familiar  voices,  even  more  than  familiar  faces, 
pass  into  our  very  being,  and  become  one  with  us.  Those 
wiio  have  lived  by  the  sea,  or  in  some  great  city,  cannot 
forget  the  strange  murmur  wherever  they  may  go.  They 
listen  for  it  instinctively  ;  they  miss  it,  scarcely  knowing 
what  they  miss,  till  they  return  to  it  again.  Sometimes 
they  will  tell  you  they  cannot  sleep,  because  everything 
is  so  quiet.  And  then,  there  is  the  romantic  side  of 
noise.  Echo  will  lend  it  the  curious  charm  that  reflection 
lends  to  an  ordinary  object.  The  sighing  of  the  wind 
among  the  trees,  the  whisper  of  the  waves  in  a  shell — 
how  these  have  set  a  poet's  fancy  going.  Others  have 
loved  the  crackling  of  the  fire  on  a  frosty  evening,  the 
monody  of  the  tea-kettle,  the  chirp  of  the  cricket  on  the 
hearth.  But  if  there  was  one  who  more  than  any  felt  the 
full  charm  of  all  those  different  noises,  little  and  great, 
which  make  the  chorus  of  life,  that  one  was  the  first 
musician  of  his  day — the  first  composer,  too,  who  claimed 
distinctly  for  himself  the  title  of  poet.  The  whirr  of  a 
spinning-wheel,  the  tap  of  a  cobbler's  hannncr,  the  cracked 
notes  of  an  old  watchman,  he  did  not  fear  to  spoil  his 
daintiest  music  with  such  things  as  these.  He  loved  the 
ringing  strokes  of  the  sledge  upon  the  anvil ;  his  burning 
thoughts  kept  tune  with  them.  Prisoning  the  fire  in  his 
wand,  like  another  Prometheus,  he  let  the  flames  burst 
forth  again  to  make  a  rosy  ring  around  his  sleeping  lady, 
or  flashed  them  in  lightning  through  the  tempests  that 
only  he  could  raise.  Not  in  vain  had  he  watched  the 
Wild  Huntsman,  and  heard  the  rain  fall  lightly  on  the 
forest  leaves ;  and  to  the  storm  and  stress  of  nature 
without,  joining  the  storm  and  stress  of  the  fiery  nature 
within  him,  he  sent  his  Walkyries  riding  abroad  upon 


172  ESSAYS 

the  very  wings  of  the  wind.  The  rush  and  dash  of  waves, 
the  cabu  flowing  of  a  river,  the  gradual  rising  of  a  flood — 
who  could  portray  it  as  he  could  ?  Yet,  perhaps,  the 
dearest  thing  to  him  was  the  noise  of  birds  singing,  the 
hum  of  insects  whirring,  stirring,  buzzing  in  a  wood. 
'  Under  the  greenwood  tree.  Who  loves  to  lie  with  me  .''  ■* 
sang  Shakespeare.  It  was  Wagner  who  loved  to  lie  there 
too,  and  listen.  Avaunt,  ye  geographers  !  Siegfried  and 
Orlando  wandered  in  the  same  forest. 


MORE  WORLDS  THAN  ONE  ITS 


[1888] 
MORE  WORLDS  THAN  ONE  i 

'Tea,  in   cups  with  handles  and   saucers,  was   handed 
round  by  servants  in  black  dress  suits,  with  white  ties." 

Who  would  have  thought  it  possible  to  describe  a 
tea-party  in  a  new  and  striking  manner  ?  Yet  Miss 
Bird  has  done  it.  If  she  had  lived  when  tea  cost  nine- 
teen shillings  a  pound,  she  could  not  have  pictured  a 
gathering  in  honour  of  that  beverage  with  more  origin- 
ality. We  almost  feel  as  if  we  were  reading  about  some- 
thing we  had  never  heard  of  before.  We  are  in  Japan 
with  her  for  the  moment.  European  tea  is  a  strange 
and  foreign  thing.  We  are  not  accustomed  to  it  in  cups 
with  saucers  and  handles  to  them. 

People  who  are  at  all  sympathetic  by  nature  are  often 
curiously  influenced  by  their  surroundings.  It  is  said 
that  an  Englishman  who  has  lived  long  in  the  East,  away 
from  his  fellow-countrymen,  sinks  at  last  into  the  very 
depths  of  Oriental  degradation.  Lady  Hester  Stanhope 
was  an  odd  person.  As  things  were,  Mr.  Kinglake 
enjoyed  his  visit  to  her,  but  he  could  hardly  have  enjoyed 
it  anywhere  but  in  the  East.  Live  in  a  Cathedral  town 
for  a  week  and  you  will  come  to  feel  that  the  Dean  is  the 
most  important  person  in  England,  and  that  the  one  object 
of  life  is  not  to  be  late  for  Evensong  at  the  Minster. 
1  From  The  Reflector,  March  1888. 


174  ESSAYS 

But  these  are  only  temporary  phases  of  existence.  We 
may  go  once  in  a  way  to  Japan,  the  desert,  or  the  Cathe- 
dral town,  but  they  are  not  ours  to  frequent  as  we  will, 
whenever  we  get  too  dull  for  ourselves,  and  are  driven  to 
seek  refreshment  elsewhere.  What  matter?  there  are 
three  whole  worlds  at  our  disposal :  the  world  that  is,  of 
which  we  know  something;  the  world  that  will  be,  of 
which  we  know  nothing ;  and  the  world  that  never  was 
and  never  will  be,  about  which  we  know  everything. 
Some  live  entirely  in  one,  some  in  another  ;  the  happiest 
people  have  the  range  of  all  three.  At  one  time  or  the 
other  we  have  most  of  us  inhabited  the  third.  We  have 
made  fortunes  and  friends  in  it,  we  have  married  wives 
in  it,  we  hold  a  great  deal  of  Spanish  property  there. 
Sometimes  we  go  thither  under  feigned  names.  There 
have  been  Dukes  of  Wellington  who  never  fought  at 
Waterloo,  and  bloodless  victories  over  nobody  and 
nothing,  the  results  of  which  were  unspeakably  gratifying 
to  the  winner  of  them.  There  have  been  picture-gal- 
leries, theatres,  libraries,  racecourses  in  tiiat  world,  the 
like  of  which  was  never  seen  below.  It  is  a  lovely  world, 
all  rose  and  rainbow  colour.  Everything  is  possible 
there,  and  everybody  succeeds.  It  is  a  kind  of  practical 
workaday  heaven,  to  which  we  go  without  even  the 
expense  of  being  good  beforehand.  Many  of  the  women 
there  are  men  and  all  men  are  heroes.  The  right 
person  does  the  right  thing  always.     There  are  no  fogs. 

Unreality  attracts  certain  minds,  as  money  attracts  the 
miser,  rank  the  baseborn,  heroic  deatli  the  young.  The 
unreal  denizens  of  that  world  are  to  some  people  dearer 
than  flesh  and  blood.  Not  to  all.  '  So  natural,  so  real^ 
say  the  people  who  live  in  world  No.  1,  when  they  read 
story-books  ;  but  they  speak  falsely.     Life  is  not  a  story- 


MORE  WORLDS  THAN  ONE  175 

book,  or  no  stories  need  ever  be  written.  Who  wants  to 
read  when  he  is  at  the  play  ?  There  is  nothing  so  incon- 
sistent, so  inartistic  as  reality.  Humorous  it  may  be, 
and  pathetic — more  humorous  and  more  pathetic  than 
any  story  that  was  ever  written — but  quite  without  that 
strange  power  of  pleasing  and  satisfying,  which  is  the 
property  of  things  and  people  that  never  were.  A  may 
die,  B  may  marry,  C  may  get  an  appointment  in  China ; 
but  the  health  of  dear  Di  Vernon  never  gives  me  one 
day's  uneasiness,  Rose  Jocelyn  will  let  me  ride  with  her 
when  I  will,  Dorothea  Brooke  is  always  at  home  to  me. 
It  may  be  thought  that  this  society  is  too  exclusively 
feminine.  The  lovers  of  these  ladies  might  no  doubt  be 
as  interesting  as  they  are,  if  I  cared  to  visit  them  ;  but  I 
do  not.  A  feeling  of  jealousy  comes  over  me.  I  know  I 
could  have  made  every  one  of  the  sweet  creatures  (and 
how  many  more  besides  ?)  happier  than  that  conceited 
fop  Frank  Osbaldistone,  that  free-and-easy  weathercock 
Will  Ladislaw,  that  irreproachable  tailor-gentleman 
Evan  Harrington.  Luckily  there  is  safety  in  numbers. 
I  sometimes  pass  them  all  in  review,  wondering  which  I 
should  have  chosen  had  fortune  given  me  a  choice  in  any 
world  except  the  third.  Beatrice  frightens  me  a  little, 
but  when  I  think  of  her  at  the  other  end  of  my  dinner- 
table,  Browning,  Leighton,  and  Mr.  Gladstone  listening 
delightedly  to  her  remarks,  I  am  a  proud  and  happy  man. 
Rosalind  would  be  perfection  for  a  week  in  the  New 
Forest  at  Easter.  Portia  would  mean  exile.  One  can- 
not imagine  her  out  of  Belmont ;  but  she  would  be  a 
charming  winter  wife.  Miss  Harriet  Byron  is  too  good 
for  me.  I  do  not  aspire  to  such  a  saint.  But  the 
naughty  and  fascinating  Lady  Charlotte  G.  might  take 
me  to  Church  to-morrow,  even   after   I   had   fully  con- 


176  ESSAYS 

sidered  the  awful  responsibility  of  becoming  Sir  Charles 
Grandison's  brother-in-law.  Elizabeth  Bennet  I  cannot 
away  with.  I  would  not  have  married  her  to  save  my 
life,  or  on  a  desert  island.  Emilia  in  The  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho  had,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  remarks,  too  great  a 
tendency  to  drop  into  verses  addressed  to  a  bat.  Nor  is 
it  possible  to  care  much  about  his  own  heroines,  except- 
ing always  the  aforesaid  Di  Vernon,  and  Green  Mantle  in 
Redgauntlet^  to  whom  I  would  willingly  offer,  in  the 
words  of  Heine — 

'  Das  vvenig  Herz  das  mir  gelassen 
Ihre  Vergangerin  im  Reich. i 

'  '  The  Greeks,  sir,  had  a  great  respect  for  the  Number  Three,'  said 
my  friend,  when  I  read  him  this  essay.  He  also  quoted  a  remark  of 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  about  length,  breadth,  and  height. 


THE  MAKING  OF  HEROINES  177 


[1888] 

THE  MAKING  OF  HEROINES  i 

I  BKLiKVE  I  am  quite  capable  of  being  a  hero :  but 
so  far  as  I  know,  I  am  not  one ;  and  I  want  to  have 
some  good  way  suggested  to  me  of  occupying  that 
desirable  position.  After  all,  this,  if  any,  is  the  age 
when  Sancho  Panza  (or  Mrs.  Panza  for  that  matter) 
seems  to  have  a  good  chance  of  enjoying,  at  all  events 
for  a  time,  the  position  and  reputation  which  even  Don 
Quixote  found  so  hard  to  obtain  in  days  when  chivalry 
had  already  gone  out,  and  interviewers  had  not  yet  come 
in.  Everybody  must  have  noticed  that  celebrated  people 
nowadays,  especially  celebrated  ladies,  have  nearly  as 
many  lives  as  a  Kilkenny  cat.  They  are  born,  they  are 
married,  they  die  over  and  over  again,  in  the  columns  of 
newspapers  and  in  the  pages  of  biographers.  Even 
before  their  natural  decease,  they  very  often  live  in  a 
world  of  looking-glass,  which  reflects  all  their  most 
important  actions — or  their  least  important,  as  the  case 
may  be — for  the  benefit  of  the  outside  world. 

It  was  not  always  so.  Mrs,  William  Shakespeare's 
sufferings  may,  in  her  different  sphere,  have  equalled 
Mrs.  Carlyle's,  and  she  may  have  been  just  as  cross  and 
just  as  clever,  but  no  one  of  her  husband's  friends  was 
entrusted  with  the  unpleasant  duty  of  describing  her 
conjugal  adventures  for  the  edification  of  posterity.     We 

1  From  The  Reflector,  March  i8S8. 
M 


178  ESSAYS 

know  next  to  nothing  of  those  much-to-be-pitied  young 
women,  the  daughters  of  Milton,  and  what  little  we  do 
know  does  not  redound  to  their  credit.  Had  they  but 
lived  a  couple  of  hundred  years  later,  we  should,  no 
doubt,  have  possessed  an  interesting  work  entitled  '  The 
Real  John  Milton,'  of  which  they  were  the  suffering 
heroines.  Let  all  downtrodden  wives  and  daughters  of 
the  genus  irrHabilc  vatum  take  courage  !  Their  day  was 
long  in  coming,  but  it  has  come  at  last.  A  strong 
character  must  that  be  indeed  which  can  stand  the  glare 
of  light  thus  flung  on  it  from  all  sides.  The  results  of 
different  treatment  are  sometimes  as  perceptible  as  those  in 
varying  portraits  of  the  same  person.  One  artist  is  per- 
fectly convinced  that  the  eyes  were  pale  blue ;  another 
would  go  to  the  stake  for  the  opinion  that  they  were  dark 
brown.  It  is  a  rare  thing  when  the  subject  is  too  striking 
to  admit  of  any  mistake.  'Mrs.  Gaskell,  Mr.  Reid,  and  Mr. 
Birrell  are  three  very  different  people,  but  Charlotte  Bronte 
is  much  the  same  in  all  their  pictures.  It  has  been  wittily 
said,  that  every  individual  stands  really  for  three — him- 
self, the  self  he  thinks  himself,  and  the  self  somebody 
else  thinks  him.  She  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the 
very  few  who  cherish  no  illusions  on  their  own  account 
and  permit  none  to  be  cherished  by  others.  She  had 
one  good  strong  self,  and  she  stuck  to  it,  and  stamped  it 
indelibly  upon  her  every  word  and  action. 

What  befalls  celebrated  people  invariably  after  their 
death,  and  frequently  during  their  life,  befalls  common- 
place people  only  at  rare  intervals  and  at  certain  crises. 
Few  of  us  have  strength  of  mind  enough  to  make  heroes 
of  ourselves,  but  once  or  twice  at  least,  in  the  course  of 
our  existence,  events  make  heroes  of  us  in  our  own 
despite.     The    first    Mrs.    Dombey,   had    she   '  made    an 


THE  MAKING  OF  HEROINES  179 

effort/  would  never  have  been  the  first  Mrs.  Dombey. 
Cireu instances,  we  know,  rendered  it  impossible,  and 
those  circumstances  made  her  immortal ;  but  she  is  only 
cited  as  an  extreme  case.  Woman  is,  as  a  rule,  quicker 
to  take  advantage  of  her  life  than  man  ;  she  is  less 
passive.  Man  at  a  crisis — unless  it  be  a  crisis  of  war — 
is  a  stupid  thing.  He  either  makes  a  fool  of  himself,  or 
allows  the  world  to  make  a  fool  of  him,  from  which  fate 
woman  is  preserved  by  her  innate  self-respect,  and  by  a 
certain  capacity  which  she  possesses  for  making  the  most 
of  emotion.  A  bridegroom  is  either  the  silliest  or  the 
most  miserable  of  mortals,  but  marriage  can  always 
make  a  heroine  out  of  the  least  heroic  of  women.  She 
is  the  centre  of  attraction,  for  the  time  being.  Every- 
thing is  forgiven  her,  on  account  of  the  ordeal  through 
which  she  has  to  pass.  Her  married  friends  pity  her. 
Her  unmarried  friends  envy  either  her  or  the  bridegroom, 
as  the  case  may  be.  Her  will  is  law.  Her  prospects 
and  her  presents  are  the  subject  of  conversation  among 
all  her  acquaintance.  She  is  obliged  to  take  the  opinion 
of  the  whole  household,  from  Grandmamma  down  to  the 
lady's  maid,  as  to  the  fit  of  her  wedding-gown.  No  one 
spares  her  blushes  about  the  ring.  Every  one  says  '  Poor 
tiling  ! ' — if  the  height  of  the  bride  does  not  absolutely 
forbid  it,  '  Poor  little  thing ! '  The  borderland  between 
Miss  and  Mrs.,  especially  the  extreme  verge  of  the 
borderland,  has  an  odd  fascination.  Some  people,  like 
Racine,  always  cry  at  a  wedding.  Sir  Tiiomas  Browne, 
we  know,  thought  it  a  far  more  solenni  thing  than  death. 
It  is,  at  any  rate,  a  crisis,  whether  from  the  lady's  maid's 
point  of  view  or  Racine's. 

Some  are  made  heroes  of  (most  unwillingly)  by  a  fire 
a  burglary,  a  mad  dog,  or  the  small-pox.     It  is  a  mistake 


180  ESSAYS 

to  suppose  that  success  ever  makes  heroes.  A  certain 
element  of  melancholy  is  almost  always  needful.  The 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  is  not  a  hero,  unless  he  has 
to  go  to  prison.  The  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  is 
not  a  hero,  unless  he  is  compelled  to  offer  up  his  lofty 
position  on  the  altar  of  his  country. 

It  is  appalling  to  think  how  full  the  world  is  of  inter- 
mittent, involuntary,  nameless  and  numberless  heroes 
and  heroines.  I  know  at  least  nineteen,  and  my 
acquaintance  is  limited.  I  have  never  yet  been  a  hero 
in  my  own  person,  but  I  comfort  myself  with  the  old 
saying,  '  While  there  is  life,  there  is  hope." 


TRAVELLERS'  TALES  181 


[1891] 
TRAVELLERS^  TALES  ^ 

That  the  Spring  is  the  season  for  wandering,  who  that 
has  ever  understood  the  signs  of  the  times  will  doubt  ? 
The  Winter  is  house-keeping  time — house-keeping  time 
in  town,  if  possible — with  fires,  and  lamps,  and  books. 
The  Summer  is  garden  time,  among  the  roses  and  straw- 
berries. The  Autumn  is  too  sad  to  think  about  at  all. 
But  the  Spring  is  the  time  to  wander,  '  Try  something 
new  !  ■■  says  the  old  earth,  and  jjuts  out  all  her  new  flowers 
and  leaves  to  tempt  us,  and  to  fill  us  with  strange  melan- 
choly, that  is  more  than  half  longing — a  kind  of  home- 
sickness for  distant  lands.  The  very  air  tells  us,  in  soft 
balmy  whispers,  how  the  myrtles  and  orange-trees  are 
blossoming  over  the  sea  ;  the  swallows  come  again,  from  far, 
far  away,  '  und  ich,  ich  schnlire  den  Sack  und  wandei^e,' 

Once  more  the  fleavenly  Power 

Makes  all  thing-s  new. 

The  old  earth  has  something  of  the  tenderness  and  beauty 
of  a  young  mother. 

There  are  few  things  more  delightful  than  travelling, 
to  those  who  really  enjoy  it.  But  people  are  born 
travellers,  as  they  are  born  poets,  painters  and  musicians. 
'  Thursday''s  bairn  hath  far  to  go,**  says  the  old  rhyme, 
and  'l'hursday"'s  bairn,  and  Thursday's  bairn  only,  enjoys 
^  From  The  Monthly  Packet,  August  1S91. 


182  ESSAYS 

it.  Some  men  might  go  from  the  world's  beginning 
north  (I  do  not  know  why,  but  I  am  quite  sure  the  world 
began  north)  to  the  world's  end  south,  and  never  get  out 
of  England  the  whole  time.  For  unless  you  travel  in 
the  spirit  as  well  as  in  the  body,  you  get  but  a  little 
way  ;  and  there  are  people  (Pnte  and  I  for  example)  who, 
scarcely  stirring  from  their  own  fireside,  have  yet  gone 
further  than  many  a  '  'mercial '  that  knows  Bradshaw  by 
heart.  Even  an  undeveloped  genius  for  travelling  will 
do  wonders.  What  did  not  the  hero  and  heroine  of 
Their  Wedding  Journey  accomplish,  by  the  mere  deter- 
mination to  treat  their  native  land  as  if  it  were  a  foreign 
country  ? 

What  fine  fellows  are  the  great  explorers,  from 
Columbus  to  Greeley  !  AVith  what  magnificent  chivalry 
do  they  go  forth  to  fight  the  sun,  the  sea,  the  snow, 
that  they  may  win  new  lands,  new  light  for  the  world  ! 
My  lady  Science  hath  her  martyrs  among  them,  not 
saints  indeed,  but  men  as  grand,  as  brave  and  as  enduring. 
The  traveller  is  certainly  not  a  martyr ;  yet  doth  he  feel 
a  little  sting  of  the  same  spirit  within  him,  and  his  small 
discoveries  are  to  him  an  America.  For  to  travel  any- 
where intelligently  is  to  discover  for  yourself,  if  not  for 
any  one  else  ;  and  the  Undiscovered  Country  lies  not  only 
in  the  heart  of  Africa,  nor  round  the  Poles.  Who,  for 
instance,  discovered  Yorkshire  before  Charlotte  Bronte  ? 

There  are  people  who  ought  to  be  paid  to  travel,  they 
do  it  so  well.     Miss  Bird  ^  is  one  of,  these.     She  is  such 

^  Now,  however,  this  lady  has  a  more  than  dangerous  rival  in  the 
author  of  A  Social  Departure.  The  vivid,  yet  reposeful  effect  of  certain 
aspects  of  Eastern  colouring, — the  freshness,  and  the  familiarity  of 
certain  aspects  of  Eastern  life,  —  are  described  with  still  greater  delicacy 
in  a  small,  unpretending  volume,  recently  published,  called  Pilgrims  hi 
Palestine. 


TRAVELLERS'  TALES  183 

excellent  company  in  Japan,  that  we  could  almost  find  it 
in  our  hearts,  even  at  the  end  of  her  two  fat  volumes,  to 
wish  she  had  stayed  there  a  month  longer.     Hers  are  no 
sentimental  journeys  ;  she  does  not  burst  into  lyrics,  and 
nobody  ever  tries  to  murder  her ;  but  she  has  good  eyes, 
and    she    uses   them.      And   then   Miss  Bird  is  such    a 
charming  name  for  a  traveller  !     Fate  clearly  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.     Heresy  though  it  be  to  say  so,  her 
travels  are  much  better  reading  than  Goethe"'s.      The 
strange  influence  that  Italy  exercised  over  him  is  to  be 
learnt  from  other  sources ;  but  if  he  fled  to  her  like  a 
lover,  he  described  her  like  the  coldest  of  connoisseurs. 
He — and    George  Eliot  after  him — seem   to  have  been 
afflicted  with  a  tendency  to  rival  the  best  guide-books  in 
their  possession  that  is  perfectly  maddening.      If  it  were 
not   for  Kennst  du   das  Land,  and   for  the   pictures   of 
Florence  in  Romola,  they  certainly  might  have  been  paid 
to  stay  at  home.     One  sighs  to  think  what  poor  Frau  von 
Stein  had  to  wade  through,  every  time  that  she  got  a 
letter.     Heine,  on  the  other  hand,  was  an  ideal  traveller. 
Perhaps  the  nightingales  sing  a  thought  too  often,  and 
the  moonlight  is  now  and  then  excessive,  but  still  his  is 
the  magic  music,  and  whither  he  goes  we  follow  him,  as 
the  children  followed  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin.     Some 
people,  in   whom  one  might  have  suspected   the   latent 
traveller,   disappoint   one   terribly.       Of  this   number  is 
Hawthorne,  whose   note-books  are    redeemed    from    the 
utter  flatness  of  Goethe's  and  George  Eliofs  only  by 
those  occasional  odd  touches  that  make  everything  that 
he  wrote  characteristic.     What  does  he  think  of  in  the 
Louvre  ?     He  does  not  seem  to  care  for  one  of  the  great 
pictures.       He    passes    '  Mona    Lisa'   by — '  Mona    Lisa,' 
whom  he  alone  of  all  men,  since  Leonardo,  could  have 


184  ESSAYS 

understood.  Instead,  he  fancies  grimly,  what  a  scene 
there  would  be,  if  all  the  dead  came  back  to  claim  his  or 
her  own  relic, — the  dagger — the  bracelet — the  brooch, — 
from  its  particulai-  glass  case. 

French,  Germans,  Americans,  see  things  with  very 
different  eyes.  Kinglake  is  the  most  English  of  travellers. 
The  chivalry,  the  detestation  of  humbug,  the  quiet, 
practical,  foolhardy  courage  of  a  typical  English  gentle- 
man, are  all  represented  in  Eothen.  Who  that  has  ever 
read  that  wonderful  book,  can  forget  the  whirl  of  feeling 
about  the  Virgin  Mary — the  passing  of  the  other  English- 
man on  camel-back,  in  the  desert,  without  a  word, — the 
wilful  risk  of  life,  merely  for  the  excitement  of  staying  in 
a  plague-stricken  city  ?  These  things  are,  in  their  way, 
national.  Perhaps  only  the  English  can  understand 
them.  Laurence  Oliphant,  at  his  best,  gives  one  the 
same  delightful  sensations.- 

'  There  is  a  sense,  of  course,  in  which  all  true  books  are 
books  of  travel. '  So  writes  the  traveller,  whom,  of  all 
others,  he  that  goes  forth  with  eyes  eager  to  see,  would 
choose  for  his  companion.  Modestine  was  a  happy 
animal,  if  she  had  but  known  it.  Treasure  Island  is  a 
good  book,  but  some  people  would  give  ten  Treasure 
Islands  for  one  Inland  Voyage.  It  seems  almost  a  pity, 
that  any  one  who  can  describe  real  life  thoroughly  well 
should  ever  do  anything  else.  There  are  so  many  who 
can  fly — a  little ;  so  few  who  know  how  to  talk,  or  how 
to  manage  a  boat  in  print.  Here  is  at  last  a  writer  of 
fiction,  whose  journeying  is  something  more  than  an 
inferior  episode  in  his  novels.  He  is  himself  his  own 
best  hero;  we  would  rather  know  what  he  thinks  and 
feels,  we  would  rather  hear  what  gi'ieved,  amused,  en- 
dangered him,  than  anything  else  that  he  can  tell   us. 


TRAVELLERS'  TALES  185 

Dickens,  who  could  make  a  hero,  tragic  or  comic,  out  of 
any  one,  had  not  this  faculty,  or  had  it  not  in  perfection. 
In  the  Italian  notes,  for  instance,  we  cannot  but  feel  that 
he  would  rather  be  telling,  and  we  would  much  rather 
be  hearing,  a  story.  Either  he  bored  himself,  or  else  he 
did  not  pay  us  the  compliment  of  being  quite  frank  with 
us,  and  put  on  spectacles,  when  he  wanted  to  see  things 
for  the  public.  So,  too,  Scott's  diary,  deeply  interesting 
when  he  speaks  of  himself  in  private,  becomes  positively 
dull  when  he  takes  a  voyage — I  suppose,  because  he  then 
wrote  consciously  for  others, 

Stevenson  is  very  matter-of-fact  about  his  mental 
experiences.     Apparently — 

He  thinks  it  something-  less  than  vain, 
What  has  been  done,  to  do  again. 

All  roads,  it  is  said,  lead  to  Rome ;  but  Robert  Louis's 
do  not.  He  goes  to  odd  little  out-of-the-way  places,  and 
he  goes  in  queer  ways  of  his  own,  that  are  not  in  the 
least  dangerous  or  extraordinary,  but  only  very  amusing. 
He  takes  a  donkey  or  a  canoe.  The  deliberate  cheerful- 
ness with  which  he  surmounts  every  difficulty  rises 
unconsciously  to  the  level  of  courage,  and  the  reader  is 
surprised  and  altogether  delighted  to  find  that,  while  he 
thought  he  was  merely  laughing,  he  is  really  admiring. 
And  then  Stevenson  has  plucked  out  the  heart  of  the 
matter.  ' To  travel  hopefully,''  says  he,  "is  better  than 
to  arrive.' 


186  ESSAYS 


[1906] 
MRS.  GASKELLi 

Al:most  a  hundred  years  have  passed  away  since  Mrs. 
Gaskell  was  born,  and  the  lustre  of  her  fame  is  yet 
undimmed.  She  was  no  wild  poet  of  love  among  the 
moors  like  Charlotte  Bronte,  no  learned  professor  of  the 
analytical  arts  and  sciences  like  George  Eliot ;  but  the 
special  graces  of  womanhood  are  hers  rather  than  theirs, 
and  it  was  not  without  reason  that  Dickens  called  her 
his  '  Scheherazade,'  for  the  innate  gift  of  storytelling  is 
greater  in  her  than  in  her  sisters.  Charlotte  Bronte 
swept  the  world  away  in  the  storm  of  her  passion  ; 
George  Eliot  conquered  it  with  the  power  of  under- 
standing; Mrs.  Gaskell  forced  it  to  weep  for  pity, 
charmed  it  with  the  sunny  wit  of  a  lady  who  was  never 
in  all  her  life  mistaken  for  a  man,  even  when  she  signed 
herself  Cotton  Mather  Mills,  Esq.  She  did  not  write 
at  first  because  she  must,  but  because  she  would.  The 
sufferings  of  the  poor  had  entered  into  her  soul  like 
iron.  She  felt  them  as  Dickens  and  Kingsley  felt  them  ; 
she  threw  her  strength  into  a  mighty  effort  for  peace — 
not  on  compulsion — for  Christianity,  not  for  compromise. 
The  fairness  and  sweetness  of  Mary  Bay-ton  make  it 
the  noble  thing  it  is.  She  never  for  an  instant  would 
admit  that  bitterness  could  be  right.  She  did  not 
justify  the  bitterness  of  the  poor,  though  she  pointed 
'  From  the  Times  Literary  Supplement,  14th  September  1906. 


MRS.  GASKELL  187 

out  to  tlic  rich  what  had  caused  that  bitterness.  It  is 
not  only  by  taking  a  gun  and  shooting  some  one  that  a 
man  breaks  the  connnandnient,  'Thou  shalt  do  no 
murder' :  yet,  if  he  breaks  it  thus,  he  makes  himself  the 
equal  of  the  man  who  has  let  another  starve,  and  both 
alike  must  pay  in  blood  the  awful  penalty  of  hatred, 
both  alike  must  be  brought  to  acknowledge  that  love  is 
the  only  power  that  can  rule  the  world.  A  strange 
subject,  this  of  '  forgiveness."'  With  one  sternly  ironical 
reference,  '  Oh,  Orestes !  you  would  have  made  a  very 
tolerable  Christian  of  the  nineteenth  century ! ''  Mrs. 
Gaskell  takes  us  back  to  the  dead-alive  conviction  of 
the  ancient  world,  still  walking  ghost-like  in  the  midst 
of  us,  that  justice  is  vengeance;  in  the  light  of  her  own 
unquenchable  faith  she  leads  us  on  to  see  that  justice  is 
forgiveness.  She  never  imagined  anything  more  true  to 
human  nature  at  its  highest  than  this  bending  of  the 
spirit  of  one  heart-broken  father  to  the  spirit  of  another, 
in  stricken,  reverent  submission  to  the  Father  of  all. 

Perhaps  it  was  reserved  for  a  woman  to  show  that,  in 
women  guiding  their  conduct  by  the  Bible,  forgiveness  may 
become,  as  it  raroly  becomes  in  men,  an  instinct.  Electra, 
in  the  old  world,  urged  on  Orestes ;  the  idea  of  forgiving 
her  mother  never  entered  her  heart.  Desdemona  not  only 
forgave  the  Moor  her  death,  but  tried,  with  her  last 
breath,  to  take  the  guilt  of  it  upon  herself.  Shakespeare 
clearly  held  that,  when  a  woman  loves,  forgiveness  is 
involuntary,  she  does  not  even  think  of  it;  but  what 
would  Desdemona  have  felt  towards  any  one  who  had 
killed  Othello?  Isabella's  forgiveness  of  Angelo,  the 
would-be  murderer  of  her  brother,  in  Measure  for 
Measure,  is  the  result  of  thought,  of  pity  for  his 
betrothed,  of  resolution — it  is  not  instinctive. 


188  ESSAYS 

'  They'll  know  it  sooner  or  later,  and  repent  sore  if 
they  've  hanged  him  for  what  he  never  did,'  replied  Job. 

'  Ay,  that  they  will.  Poor  soul !  May  God  have  mercy 
on  them  when  they  find  out  their  mistake  ! ' 

So  says  Jane  Wilson,  mother  of  the  accused  Jem  in 
Mary  Bartoii,  without  any  consciousness  of  the  sublimity 
of  her  words.  Mrs.  Gaskell  might  have  taken  for  her 
motto  the  name  of  one  of  Tolstoy's  most  delicate  short 
stories,  '  Where  love  is,  there  is  God  also ! '  In  her 
unending  compassion,  in  her  love  of  the  gentleness  of 
the  frail  and  the  old,  in  her  clear  condemnation  of 
violence  as  a  remedy,  her  scorn  of  military  prowess,  she 
resembles  the  great  Russian  more  closely  than  any  of 
her  countrymen.  But  he  was  still  to  come  ;  and,  though 
she  afterwards  withdrew  them — it  may  be  from  a  sensitive 
feeling  that  they  revealed  too  much  of  her  inmost  heart — 
she  found  in  Uhland's  words  a  link  to  fasten  to  her 
work  the  memory  of  two  spirits. 

Mary  Barton  was  begun,  by  her  husband's  earnest 
desire,  to  relieve  her  own  mental  sufferings  after  the 
death  of  her  little  son.  Terrible  indeed  must  have  been 
the  thoughts  from  which  the  thoughts  that  gave  it  birth 
were  a  relief!  The  men  and  women  who  were  writing 
about  the  dreadful  year  of  "'48  had  great  courage.  They 
did  not  fly  from  the  most  agonising  problems  of  life 
and  conduct.  They  stood  up  and  faced  them— not  with 
the  indifferent  calm  of  the  student,  careful  only  to  note 
and  compare,  but  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Church 
militant.  They  recognised  the  fact  that  these  problems, 
although  so  troublesome,  are  for  the  most  part  expressed 
in  simple  terms.  They  were  not  so  much  concerned 
about  the  form  of  religion  a  man  ought  to  belong  to,  or 
which  woman   he  ought  to  have  married,  as  they  were 


MRS.  GASKELL  189 

about  whether  he  did  or  did  not  understand  the  words 
of  Christ — whether  he  was  or  was  not  doing  his  duty  in 
that  state  of  life  unto  which  it  had  pleased  God  to  call 
him.  Humour — imagination — elocjuence — they  did  not 
use  these  gifts  I'or  their  own  solace,  they  pressed  them 
into  the  service  of  those  who  had  none.  '  To  my  think- 
ing, them  that  is  strong  in  any  of  God's  gifts  is  meant 
to  help  the  weak  ! '  Job  Legh  expresses  the  thought  of 
all  the  leading  writers  of  that  time.  As  the  sonnet, 
which  had  been  as  a  lute  for  lovers,  became  in  Milton's 
hands  a  trumpet,  so  the  novel,  which  had  been  once 
(and  was  to  be  again)  a  toy,  became  in  theirs  a  sword 
with  which  to  fight  in  the  cause  of  the  oppressed.  Away 
— but  only  for  a  time — went  the  dashing,  s{)lashing 
fellow  with  the  white  plume,  that  we  are  all  so  fond  of! 
Thackeray  wrote  a  novel  without  a  hero ;  Dickens  took 
a  child  for  his;  Charlotte  Bronte  made  a  heroine  out  of 
a  poor  little  plain  governess ;  George  Eliot  showed  how 
much  more  gentlemanly  than  a  gentleman  a  carpenter 
might  be.  Mrs.  Gaskell,  more  daring  than  any  of  them, 
rivalling  Victor  Hugo's  choice  of  a  convict,  as  she  lay 
sick  and  sad  upon  her  sofa,  took  an  assassin.  She  called 
the  book  at  first  '  John  Barton ' ;  and  of  the  living, 
moving  characters  on  that  wonderful  canvas  he  is  the 
first  to  arrest  our  attention,  the  last  that  we  could  forget. 
Small  wonder  is  it  that  an  Oldham  labourer  should  have 
taken  his  children  regularly  to  look  at  the  house  where 
she  lived  who  thus  could  read  the  heart  of  the  Avork- 
ing  man,  who  thus  could  turn  all  hearts  towards  him ! 
From  the  moment  when  we  meet  him  at  the  stile  and  he 
takes  Jane  Wilson's  baby,  to  the  moment  when  he  dies, 
forgiven,  in  the  arms  of  the  man  whose  only  son  he 
has  murdered,  loving  and  pitying  sympathy  follows  him 


190  ESSAYS 

step  by  step.     Some  of  his  words  strike  on  the  conscience 
now  like  hammers  : — 

'  When  I  was  a  Httle  chap  they  taught  me  to  read,  and 
then  they  never  gave  no  books.' 

'It's  not  much  lean  say  for  myself  in  t'other  world, 
God  forgive  me ;  but  I  can  say  this,  I  would  fain  have  gone 
after  the  Bible  rules,  if  I  'd  seen  folk  credit  it.' 

'  I  would  go  through  hell  fire,  if  I  could  but  get  free  from 
sin  at  last.' 

'  It  was  not  long  I  tried  to  live  Gospel-wise,  but  it  was 
liker  heaven  than  any  other  bit  of  earth  has  been.' 

Apart  from  its  own  intrinsic  interest,  the  first  con- 
siderable work  of  a  great  novelist  awakens  our  curiosity 
for  the  hints  it  may  contain  of  future  excellence.  Jem's 
first  sight  of  John  Barton  after  his  disappearance,  going 
to  the  pump  to  fetch  a  j  ug  of  water — that  vision  of  the 
murdering,  not  the  murdered  man,  haunts  memory  like 
the  spectre  that  it  really  is.  The  woman  who  wrote 
this  could  not  have  found  any  great  difficulty  in  writing, 
as  she  afterwards  did,  one  of  the  best  ghost  stories  in 
existence,  the  '  Old  Nurse's  Story,'  and  the  finer  parts  of 
that  unequal  study,  '  The  Poor  Clare.'  We  might  have 
known,  too,  that  no  hero  of  hers  could  be  really  base. 
She  held  a  brief  for  the  heroism  of  everybody  as  against 
the  heroism  of  a  favoured  few.  We  might  have  known 
that  her  heroines  would  be,  for  the  most  part,  maidenly, 
pretty,  wayward  creatures,  with  their  hearts  in  the  right 
place.  '  It  is  but  a  day  sin  I  were  young,'  says  the  old 
woman,  trying  to  comfort  the  heartbroken  girl  in  '  Half 
a  Life-time  Ago '  with  the  reflection  that  life  is  short ; 
and  the  poetry  of  this,  and  of  many  other  faithful 
servants,  may  be,  to  some  slight  extent,  foreshadowed  by 
the  old  nurse    in   Mary  Barton.     But  we  could    never 


MRS.  GASKELL  191 

have  foreseen  the  great  ladies  of  the  old  regime,  the 
doctors,  the  ministers,  the  enchanting  spinstcrhood  pre- 
sided over  by  Miss  Galindo  and  Miss  Deborah  Jenkyns, 
who  were  to  charm  us  in  Cninford,  in  the  far  less  popular 
but  just  as  perfect  picture,  Mr/  Ladij  Ludluza,  and  once 
again  in  Wives  and  Daughters.  ]\lr.  Gray,  in  the  second 
of  these  three  works,  meets  and  beats  Amos  Barton, 
]\Ir.  Gilfil,  and  Mr.  Tryan  on  their  own  ground.  We 
say  it  with  hesitation  —  we  are  not  unaware  of  the 
indignant  protest  likely  to  follow — but  still  we  assert 
that  we  should  greatly  have  preferred  his  ministrations. 
And  if,  for  ourselves,  we  had  the  joy  and  privilege  of 
calling  in  a  doctor  from  the  realms  of  fiction  whenever 
we  are  not  quite  well,  it  would  be  Dr.  Gibson,  and  not 
the  husband  of  Rosamund  Lydgatc,  for  whom  we  sent. 
There  is  barely  the  shadow  of  a  doctor,  there  arc  no 
clergy  at  all,  in  Mary  Barton.  Perhaps  the  symmetrical 
scheme  of  the  work,  the  strong,  sharp  contrast  of 
employers  and  employed,  did  not  admit  of  people  in 
an  intermediary  position.  The  grande  dame,  naturally, 
did  not  exist  in  Manchester. 

It  might  be,  if  we  had  to  choose  our  favourite  cliar- 
acter  from  this  long  gallery.  My  Lady  Ludlow  whom 
we  should  select.  There  are  no  such  ladies  now.  You 
might  search  England  through,  from  end  to  end,  and 
never  find  the  like  of  this  lovely,  beneficent  little  old 
despot.  What  need  of  heroes,  or  of  heroines  either,  if 
she  be  there?  There  are  certain  words  that  never  must 
be  mentioned  in  the  ancient  house  where  she  lives,  with 
the  five  '  young  gentlewomen '  who  are  to  her  instead  of 
her  dead  daughters,  and  the  twenty  old  servants  to  do 
the  work  of  the  twenty  other  old  servants  who  are  too 
old  to  do  any  work  at  all.     *  Musk '  is  one  of  these  words. 


192  ESSAYS 

She  cannot  abide  such  a  vulgar  and  common  odour. 
Lavender  and  woodrofFe  are  her  favourite  perfumes — 
lavender  and  woodroffe  and  the  scent  of  decaying  straw- 
berry leaves  in  the  autumn,  noted  by  Bacon  for  its 
fragrance,  and  cherished  by  her  because  only  a  nose 
of  gentle  birth  can  detect  it.  What  would  she  have 
done  in  these  days  of  Board  Schools  and  of  cheap 
literature,  she  who  had  sheltered  the  victims  of  the 
French  Revolution  and  believed  that  it  would  happen 
over  again  in  England  if  the  children  of  her  tenants 
were  taught  to  read !  How  beautiful  she  is  in  her 
gracious  tyranny,  in  her  courtly,  determined  opposition, 
in  the  rigid  reserve  of  her  strong  feelings,  in  the  end- 
less outgoing  of  her  generous  heart  to  those  who  are  in 
distress !  Etiquette  itself  becomes  a  kind  of  worship 
with  such  a  centre.  The  sorrow  that  plunged  the 
village  into  mourning  comes  to  us  like  a  personal 
sorrow  when  Mr.  Gray  goes  up  to  her  to  break  to  her 
the  death  of  her  only  son — 'and  she  had  been  the  joy- 
ful mother  of  nine ! '  The  sky  is  darkened  because  she 
sits,  a  whole  month  long,  in  a  black  room,  with  lamps 
and  candles,  seeing  no  one  except  her  maid,  reading 
nothing  except  the  names  of  all  her  children  on  the 
first  page  of  the  family  Bible.  AVe  breathe  again  as  soon 
as  she  comes  back  to  rule  her  little  kingdom.  When 
she  conferred  a  favour  it  was  always  as  though  she 
asked  it ;  and  she  '  never  forgave  by  halves."  AVhen  she 
sends  for  a  destitute,  one-legged  sailor  to  manage  her 
property  we  tremble  for  her  justification,  we  feel  she 
must  be  right,  we  trust  her  as  she  trusts  herself  and  him, 
through  all  the  mistakes  of  the  first  year.  Certainly  it 
was  hard  upon  her  that  a  Baptist  baker,  a  person  of  no 
social   standing  whatever,  should    so    contrive    that    his 


MRS.  GASKELL  193 

fields  were  in  much  better  condition  than  hers.  Even 
Miss  Galindo  only  partially  softened  her  heart  towards 
this  person. 

'  I  daresay/  said  Miss  (Jalindo,  '  he  would  have  been  born 
a  Hanbury,  or  a  lord,  if  he  could.  ...  It  was  his  mis- 
fortune, not  his  fault,  that  he  was  not  a  person  of  quality 
by  birth.' 

'  That 's  very  true/  said  my  lady,  after  a  pause  for  con- 
sideration, '  but,  although  he  was  a  baker,  he  might  have 
been  a  Churchman.' 

Dear  Miss  Galindo  !  She  '  often  thought  of  the  post- 
man's bringing  her  a  letter  as  one  of  the  pleasures  she 
should  miss  in  heaven"* — a  reflection  which  occurred  to 
Dr.  Johnson  also,  when  he  was  talking  to  Bozzy.  But  it 
will  never  do  to  begin  about  Mrs.  Gaskelfs  old  maids. 
They  are  as  inexhaustible  as  Rembrandt's  Jews.  Let 
us  end  rather  with  a  friendly  counsel  to  every  one  who 
does  not  already  own  these  '  unappropriated  blessings '  to 
purchase  them  at  once. 


194  ESSAYS 


QUEEN  ELIZABETH! 

Queen  Elizabeth,  when  first  she  saw  the  light  of  day, 
was  a  great  disappointment.  She  was  a  girl — she  ought 
to  have  been  a  boy. 

Why  ought  she  to  have  been  a  boy  ?  To  fight  Scot- 
land, on  one  side  and  Ireland  on  the  other — France  and 
Spain  over  the  water.  Why  ever  all  these  countries 
were  the  enemies  of  England,  it  would  take  me  too 
long  to  tell.  But  you-  must  remember,  please,  that 
they  were — four  strong  enemies,  Ireland,  Scotland,  France 
and  Spain. 

We  are  every  one  of  us  made  up  of  a  great  many 
different  people.  Elizabeth  was  made  up  of  her  grand- 
father, who  was  cautious  and  prudent,  of  her  father, 
who  was  impetuous  and  charming,  of  her  mother,  who 
was  vain,  had  a  high  temper,  and  never  cared  what  she 
did,  so  that  she  got  her  own  way.  The  impetuous  and 
charming  father  very  soon  grew  tired  of  the  vain,  light- 
minded  mother,  and  cut  off  her  head.  If  four  step- 
mothers can  make  up  for  one  real  mother,  then  the 
baby  Elizabeth  was  not  to  be  pitied  ;  but  can  they  ? 
At  first  she  was  so  badly  off  that  she  had  not  even 
clothes  enough  to  wear.  In  later  life  she  more  than 
made  up  for  this  deficiency,  for  she  wore  a  new  dress 
^  A  lecture  given  to  some  working-girls. 


ELIZABETH  195 

every  day,  365  dresses  in  a  year.  She  liked  to  be 
painted  as  a  goddess.  When  she  appeared  as  a  'mere 
woman  "*  it  was  in  a  dress  all  over  eyes  and  ears  to 
show  that  she  could  see  and  hear  everywhere — which, 
after  all,  was  not  quite  like  a  mere  woman.  There 
were  always  two  opinions  about  her.  People  who 
admired  her  called  her  Gloriana,  Oriana,  The  Virgin 
Queen,  The  Maiden  Queen,  Great  Elizabeth,  and  Good 
Queen  Bess.  People  who  did  not  admire  her  called  her 
a  serpent  and  a  viper. 

At  the  time  when  she  was  young,  it  was  quite  a  new 
idea  that  little  girls  ought  to  be  taught  as  well  as  little 
boys,  and  her  impetuous  and  charming  father  was  very 
full  of  it.  So  she  learnt  many  things,  useful  and  orna- 
mental too.  She  was  only  six  when  she  gave  her  little 
brother,  Edward,  a  cambric  shirt  that  she  had  made 
herself.  She  learnt  to  write  a  most  beautiful  hand. 
When  we  see  her  faded  old  yellow  letters  now,  we  wish 
that  we  could  write  like  that.  Slie  could  talk  to  learned 
men  in  Latin  and  Greek,  to  Frenchmen  in  French,  to 
Italians  in  Italian.  Our  dear  old  Queen  Victoria  liked 
to  stop  an  organ-grinder,  if  she  met  one  when  slie  was 
out  driving,  to  show  that  she  could  talk  to  him  in 
Italian :  and  Queen  Elizabeth — it  is  one  of  the  few 
points  that  they  have  in  common — was  very  fond  of 
showing  off  this  accomplishment.  Strange  :  but  we  have 
all  of  us  these  little  vanities.  She  was  but  eleven  years 
old  when  she  wrote  a  letter  in  Italian  to  the  last  of  the 
four  stepmothers.  She  was  taught  to  dance  most  wonder- 
fully too — she  went  on  dancing  when  she  was  over  seventy 
— and  she  could  play  and  sing.  There  were  no  pianos 
then.  Her  favourite  instrument  was  called,  appropriately, 
the  virginals. 


196  ESSAYS 

After  the  very  disagreeable  experience  of  having  too 
few  clothes  when  she  was  a  baby,  Elizabeth,  as  a  girl  of 
twenty,  underwent  the  still  more  disagreeable  experience 
of  having  too  httle  liberty — of  being  shut  up  in  prison. 
Her  brother  was  dead.  Her  half-sister,  Mary,  who  was 
queen  now,  was  afraid  that  she  wished  to  be  queen. 
No  doubt  she  did,  but  she  was  much  too  clever  to  say 
so.  When  next  you  go  to  the  Tower  of  London,  please 
ask  the  warder  to  show  you  Traitors  Gate.  Through 
this  gate  every  one  who  was  thought  to  be  a  traitor  to 
the  queen  had  to  pass — and  to  pass  through  that  gate 
was  very  often  the  first  chapter  of  a  story  that  ended 
with  somebody's  head  rolling  away  from  somebody's  body 
on  to  a  scaifold.  '  I  am  no  traitor ! '  Elizabeth  said 
proudly,  when  she  was  carried  thither  one  wet  Palm 
Sunday.  One  of  the  lords  in  attendance  offered  his 
cloak  to  keep  her  fronr  the  rain,  but  she  put  it  back 
'  with  a  good  dash,'  and  setting  her  feet  on  the  first  step 
of  the  stair,  she  said,  '  Here  landeth  as  true  a  subject, 
being  prisoner,  as  ever  landed  at  these  stairs,  and  before 
Thee,  O  God,  I  speak  it,  having  none  other  friend  but 
Thee  alone.'  Afterwards  she  was  in  prison  in  the 
country,  at  Woodstock,  instead  of  being  in  prison  in 
London.  Her  gaoler,  a  gentleman  named  Bedingfield, 
was  very  strict ;  when  she  was  going  to  be  removed 
somewhere  else,  she  took  a  diamond  for  a  pen,  and 
amused  herself  with  scratching  on  a  window-pane  a 
little  imaginary  talk  between  them.  Bedingfield  speaks 
the  first  line : 

'  Much  suspected  by  me  : 
Nothing  proved  can  be, 

Quoth  Elizabeth^  prisoner.' 

When  she  became  queen,  she  told  Bedingfield  that,  if 


ELIZABETH  197 

she  ever  wanted  any  one  safely  kept  in  prison,  she  should 
give  that  person  to  him.  Was  he  pleased,  do  you  think, 
or  was  he  not?  A  double-edged  compliment  like  that 
was  very  much  in  her  line.  Even  her  enemies — even 
the  people  who  called  her  a  serpent  and  a  viper — con- 
fessed that  she  had  '  a  spirit  full  of  incantation,"*  by 
which,  I  suppose  they  meant  that  she  charmed  them 
somehow,  even  while  they  detested  her.  At  that  time 
she  was  'pleasing  rather  than  beautiful,'  tall  and  well- 
proportioned,  her  complexion  somewhat  olive ;  in  her 
portraits  she  is  always  dazzlingly  fair,  but  then  she 
would  not  allow  any  shadows  to  be  painted  on  her  face, 
and  as  a  child  she  is  said  to  have  smashed  all  the  looking- 
glasses  she  could  find  because  they  did  not  make  her 
pretty  enough.  She  had  beautiful  eyes,  full  of  spirit 
and  sparkle,  'and  above  all  a  beautiful  hand,''  which  she 
liked  to  show.  Her  curly  hair  was  of  a  light  auburn, 
and  her  nose  was  like  the  beak  of  an  eagle.  Far  away, 
in  a  great  old  library  at  Durham,  hangs  a  picture  of  her 
half-sister  Mary,  and  I  have  heard  it  said  that  any  one 
who  happens  to  be  sitting  in  the  room  while  parties  of 
visitors  are  being  shown  through,  may  hear  very  different 
opinions  expressed  about  this  likeness.  '  Ah,  poor  suffer- 
ing, deeply  religious  lady  !  Looks  like  a  perfect  saint,"* 
says  one  man.  '  0  the  horrid,  cruel  bigot !  Looks  like 
a  hateful  fiend!'  says  another.  So  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  would  have  thought  Elizabeth  beautiful  or 
not.  It  would  have  depended  on  your  opinion  of  what 
she  did,  I  think,  for  '  handsome  is  that  handsome  does."* 
If  you  had  been  a  child  you  might  have  liked  her,  she 
was  always  kind  to  children. 

When  her  enemies  tried  to  puzzle  her  with  questions, 
to  bewilder  her,  to  prove  that  she  held  wrong  views  about 


198  ESSAYS 

the  Supper  of  the  Lord,  she  wrote  one  verse  which  is  worth 
all  the  rest  of  her  poetry  put  together. 

Christ  was  the  ^Vord  and  spake  it. 
He  took  the  Bread,  and  brake  it. 
And  what  the  Word  doth  make  it. 
That  1  believe,  and  take  it. 

Elizabeth  was  staying  at  Hatfield  (where  Lord  Salis- 
bury, who  is  of  the  same  family  as  her  great  minister, 
Cecil,  Lord  Burghley,  now  lives),  when  the  news  arrived 
that  her  sister,  Mary,  was  dead — that  she  was  queen. 
Did  she  show  how  happy  she  was  ?  Did  she  come  flying 
up  to  London  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  She  was  much  too 
clever.  She  sent  a  messenger  to  find  out  whether  it  was 
true.  But  before  that  messenger  could  get  back  again — 
and  we  may  be  sure  that  he  rode  as  fast  as  his  horse"'s  legs 
could  carry  him — the  lords  of  the  council  had  found  their 
way  to  Hatfield  and  greeted  this  young  lady  of  twenty- 
three  as  their  sovereign  mistress.  She  fell  upon  her  knees. 
'  This  is  the  Lord's  doing,""  she  said,  '  and  it  is  marvellous 
in  our  eyes.' 

From  the  first  she  showed  clearly  enougli  that  she 
meant  to  rule  by  the  love  of  her  people.  She  often 
appeared  amongst  tliem,  she  travelled  hither  and  thither, 
and  visited  this  town  and  that,  she  smiled  with  pleasure 
when  they  cheered,  she  encouraged  them  to  come  in 
crowds  about  her,  she  made  them  beautiful  speeches. 
She  led  them  to  feel  that  she  cared  for  tlieir  approval. 
If  they  disapproved  strongly  of  anything  she  did,  she 
altered  her  conduct.  Only  on  one  point  did  she  hold 
her  own.  They  were  excessively  anxious  that  she  should 
marry.  And  she  was  excessively  anxious  that  she  should 
not. 

Her    brother-in-law,    Philip    of    Spain,    proposed    to 


ELIZABETH  199 

marry  her.  It  would  be  quite  easy,  he  said.  She  would 
only  have  to  ask  the  Pope  to  forgive  her  for  not  having 
been  a  Roman  Catholic  before.  She  took  a  month  to 
think  about  it — decided  that  it  was  not  so  easy  after 
all — and  said,  No  thank  you. 

Afterwards,  at  different  times,  there  were  hovering 
about  the  throne  an  Archduke  of  Austria,  a  Prince  of 
Sweden,  two  of  the  sons  of  the  King  of  Prance,  one  of 
whom  she  called  '  her  little  French  frog '  (she  used  to  wear 
a  brooch  made  like  a  frog  that  he  had  given  her),  a 
Scottish  Earl,  a  great  English  nobleman.  Lord  Leicester, 
who  had  an  unenviable  reputation  for  poisoning  people 
he  was  tired  of,  and  built  the  loveliest  Almshouses  in  the 
world,  which  are  still  to  be  seen  with  dear  old  men  in 
them  at  Warwick.  She  liked  their  admiration,  and  all 
the  beautiful  presents  they  gave  her.  She  would  not  say 
Yes  and  she  would  not  say  No,  She  was  just  like  the 
White  Owl  in  the  Fairy  Story.  '  What  shall  I  do  ?  I 
have  promised  to  marry  them  all.'' 

'  Here  is  a  great  resort  of  wooers  and  controversy 
among  lovers,'  wrote  Lord  Burghley.  'Would  to  God 
the  Queen  had  one,  and  the  rest  honourably  satisfied." 

The  Spanish  Ambassador,  as  was  natural,  expressed 
himself  still  more  strongly  :  '  This  woman  is  possessed 
with  a  hundred  thousand  devils,  and  yet  she  pretends 
to  me  that  she  would  like  to  be  a  nun,  and  live  in  a  cell, 
and  tell  her  beads  from  mornin<]j  to  nioht."' 

'  I  have  had  such  a  torment  with  the  Queen's  majesty 
as  an  ague  hath  not  in  five  fits  abated  me,'  says  poor 
Lord  Burghley  again.  And  we  can  fancy  how  bad  it 
must  have  been  when  the  Queen's  majesty  condescended 
to  inform  him,  'I  will  have  here  but  one  mistress,  and 
no  master.' 


200  ESSAYS 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  when  people  are  very  vain,  they 
often  grow  very  jealous  too.  Elizabeth  was  extremely 
anxious  to  believe  what  all  her  lovers  told  her — that  she 
was  the  most  beautiful  princess  in  the  world  ;  but  she 
found  it  difficult,  because  there  was  another  very 
beautiful  Queen  close  by,  Mary  Stuart,  Queen  of  Scot- 
land, and  all  her  courtiers  said  that  she  w^as  the  most 
beautiful  princess  in  the  world.  One  day  she  asked  the 
ambassador  from  Scotland, '  Which  is  the  most  beautiful, 
the  Queen  of  Scotland  or  myself?"  That  is  the  kind  of 
question  that  never  should  be  asked,  even  by  Queens. 
The  poor  ambassador  was  very  much  put  to  it.  At  last 
he  found  a  safe  answer.  'My  mistress  is  the  most 
beautiful  lady  in  Scotland,"  said  he,  'and  your  majesty 
is  the  most  beautiful  lady  in  England.'  But  Gloriana 
was  not  going  to  let  him  off  like  this.  'Which  is  the 
tallest.''"'  she  inquired.  There  the  ambassador  felt  quite 
happy,  for  Mary  of  Scotland  was  the  tallest.  '  Then,' 
said  Queen  Elizabeth,  '  she  is  too  tall,  for  I  myself  am 
neither  too  tall  nor  too  short.  And  can  Queen  Mary 
play  on  the  virginals.?  Does  she  play  well.'''  'O  yes,' 
the  ambassador  said,  '  she  plays  pretty  well  for  a  Queen.' 
After  dinner,  Elizabeth  arranged  that  he  should  be 
brought  in,  by  chance  as  it  were,  just  as  she  was  playing 
herself,  and  playing  very  well  indeed.  She  let  him  listen 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  she  jumped  up,  very  much 
surprised,  pretended  to  strike  him  with  her  hand,  and 
said  she  was  not  accustomed  to  })lay  before  men,  she  only 
did  it  when  she  was  alone,  so  that  she  might  not  feel  too 
sad.  But — since  he  had  contrived  to  hear  them  both — 
did  Mary  play  better  than  she  did,  or  did  she  play  better 
than  Mary  ?  The  ambassador  was  obliged  to  say  that 
she  played  the  best,  but  by  this  time  he  had  had  enough 


ELIZABETH  201 

of"  conipaiisons,  which  might  be  rejected  in  Scotland, 
and  he  asked  leave  to  go  back.  Elizabeth  insisted  on 
keeping  him  two  days  longer,  however,  that  she  might 
show  off'  her  dancing.  She  could  not  miss  such  a  chance 
of  finding  out  wiiether  she  or  the  Queen  of  Scotland 
would  be  looked  upon  as  the  best  partner  at  a  ball.  The 
ambassador  answered  that  Mary  of  Scotland  'danced 
not  so  high  nor  so  disposedly  as  she  did.'  And  what 
that  means,  goodness  only  knows.  'Oh,  how  I  wish  I 
could  see  her!"  Elizabeth  said;  'quietly  yoi^'  know,  with- 
out any  fuss.'  'Why  not?'  rejoined  the  ambassador. 
'  Why  should  not  your  majesty  disguise  yourself  as  a 
page,  and  come  back  to  Scotland  with  me  ? '  Whereupon 
Elizabeth  heaved  a  sigh,  and  said,  oh  !  if  she  only  could. 

The  Queen  of  Scotland  was  not  so  particular  about 
marrying  as  Queen  Elizabeth.  She  married  three  times 
— each  time  more  unhappily  than  the  last-  quarrelled 
with  her  great  nobles — Hed  into  England.  She  was 
bound  to  be  Queen  of  England,  if  Elizabeth  died,  and 
many  a  great  English  nobleman,  the  Duke  of  Norfolk 
among  the  rest,  aspired  to  be  her  fourth  husband.  But 
they  were  all  afraid  to  mention  the  subject  before 
Elizabeth;  and  Norfolk,  at  the  bare  idea  of  it,  'fell 
into  an  ague,  and  was  fain  to  get  him  to  bed  without 
his  dinner.'  Remarkable  how  many  people  got  the  ague 
when  they  had  anything  to  say  to  the  Queen  ! 

This  Duke  of  Norfolk,  finding  that  he  dared  not  woo 
openly,  made  a  plot  to  marry  Queen  Mary.  Off'  went  his 
head ! 

There  is  no  doubt  that,  even  in  prison,  where  Elizabeth 
took  good  care  to  keep  her,  she  was  extremely  dangerous, 
especially  when  the  Pope  excommunicated  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, which  made  it  lawful  for  any  Roman  Catholic  to 


202  ESSAYS 

murder  her.  There  were  plots  everywhere — plots  among 
her  own  servants.  Those  who  loved  her — those  who  saw 
that  Protestant  England  was  growing  and  thriving  under 
her  wise  rule — those  who  dreaded  the  most  terrible  con- 
fusion if  she  died — urged  her  to  put  Mary  Stuart  to 
death,  '  I  cannot  put  to  death  the  bird  that  has  flown 
to  me  for  succour  from  the  hawk,' she  said.  She  kept  the 
bird  in  a  cage — in  several  different  cages — for  nineteen 
years.  One  man  after  another  tried  to  get  her  out.  One 
man  after  another  failed.  One  head  after  another  rolled 
on  the  scaffold. 

Meanwhile,  in  France,  the  Massacre  of  St.  Barthol- 
omew took  place,  and  nearly  all  the  French  Protestants 
were  murdered.  Queen  Elizabeth  put  on  mourning 
when  she  received  the  French  Ambassador,  and  all  the 
court  were  robed  in  black.  It  was,  Lord  Burgiiley  told 
him,  the  most  dreadful  deed  that  had  been  done  since 
the  Crucifixion.  The  Protestants  of  England  became 
still  more  alarmed  about  the  life  of  their  Queen,  and  an 
association  was  formed  to  protect  her.  At  last  the 
Queen's  council  urged  upon  her,  that  she  must  put  Mary 
to  death.  There  could  be  no  safety,  either  for  her  or 
for  England,  while  that  beautiful  bird  lived. 

'The  life  of  Mary  is  the  death  of  Elizabeth — the 
death  of  Mary  is  the  life  of  Elizabeth."' 

Elizabeth  hesitated — shifted  her  ground — said  she 
would — said  she  would  not — hoped  Mary  would  die  of 
herself — wished  some  one  would  murder  her  without 
being  asked  to  do  so.  Elizabeth  was  like  a  certain  king 
in  Shakespeare  who  '  would  not  play  false,  and  yet  would 
wrongly  win.'  But  we  cannot  get  rid  of  our  perplexities 
in  this  way.  Mary  Stuart  went  on  being  perfectly  well, 
and   nobody  tried   to   kill  her.     On  the  contrary,    they 


ELIZABETH  203 

tried  to  kill  Elizabeth.  At  last  her  mind  was  made  up. 
Even  then  she  tried  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  others. 
She  could  not  endure  to  think  that  her  people  would 
call  her  what  she  really  was — unjust  and  cruel.  Nothing 
can  ever  make  a  wrong  deed  right.  She  had  no  business 
to  take  the  life  ot*  the  bird  that  had  fled  to  her  for 
succour. 

iVIary  of  Scotland  had  iieard  a  sound  of  hammers  in 
the  hall  of  the  Castle  of  Fotheringay,  where  she  was 
imprisoned,  and  as  she  heard  it,  the  picture  of  a  scaffold 
rising  crossed  her  mind — but  she  could  not  believe  it. 
'  Day  had  followed  day,  and  she  heard  no  more.'  '  The 
blow,  when  it  came  at  last,  therefore  came  suddenly."* 
Lord  Shrewsbui-y  and  the  Earl  of  Kent  brought  her 
the  news. 

Philip  of  Spain,  the  brother-in-law  who  had  proposed 
to  marry  Elizabeth,  made  up  his  mind,  now  that  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  was  dead,  and  her  son  a  Protestant,  to 
conquer  England  for  himself.  Never  mind,  said  Queen 
Elizabeth's  sailors,  'Twelve  of  her  Majesty's  ships  are 
a  match  for  all  the  galleys  in  the  King  of  Spain''s 
dominions.'  Then  was  there  a  rush  and  stir  through- 
out the  realm  of  England.  Then  was  there  racing  and 
chasing  everywhere.  Then  were  the  beacon-fires  lighted 
upon  a  hundred  hills.  The  Armada  is  coming  !  The 
Armada  is  coming !  And  from  the  whole  of  England 
there  rose  a  mighty  shout  of  No ! 

It  was  Lord  Howard  of  Effingham  who  commanded 
our  fleet  against  the  Duke  of  Medina  Sidonia,  the  Com- 
mander of  Spain.  The  winds  and  the  waves  fought 
upon  our  side — and  Drake,  the  glorious  sailor  who  had 
sailed  round  the  world  in  three  years  in  the  Golden 
Hind,   and    sunk    the   great    big    ships    of    Spain,    and 


204  ESSAYS 

brought  back  to  the  Queen  ^^^75,090  and  the  jewels  that 
she  wore  in  her  crown  at  a  state  banquet  after  Phihp 
had  complained  of  his  behaviour.  She  said  the  Golden 
Hind  was  to  be  kept  for  ever  in  memory  of  him,  and 
she  gave  him  a  little  golden  ship  that  is  still  an  heirloom 
in  the  Drake  family.  The  ladies  of  Spain  were  so  much 
afraid  of  Drake  that  one  of  them  said  she  dared  not  go 
in  a  boat  with  the  King  himself  upon  the  water,  lest 
Drake  should  capture  her.  They  said  he  had  a  magic 
mirror  in  which  he  could  see  always  whatever  the  King 
of  Spain  did.  He  carried  indeed  the  magic  mirror  of 
imagination,  which  enables  people  to  see  many  things. 
In  among  the  great  big  heavy  lumbering  vessels  he  sent 
a  few  old  ships  (no  crews  at  all)  that  he  had  set  on  fire 
— and  the  great  big  heavy  lumbering  vessels  blazed  up, 
and  sank. 

'  He  blew  with  His  breath,  and  they  were  scattered." 
So  ran  the  inscription  upon  the  medal  struck  for  the 
Armada,  giving  the  glory  to  God  alone.  It  was  indeed 
a  mighty  deliverance. 

Great  things  Queen  Elizabeth  did — great  things  she 
left  undone.  The  Dutchmen,  who  rebelled  against  her 
brother-in-law,  Philip,  invited  her  to  be  their  Queen.  If 
she  had  accepted  the  invitation,  it  is  probable  that  the 
Boer  War  would  never  have  been  fought.  But  she  was 
very  prudent.  She  was  an  excellent  housekeeper.  She 
did  not  think  that  she  had  money  enough  to  fight  the 
battles  of  Holland  as  well  as  those  of  England,  and 
she  declined  the  proposal.  All  the  people  of  England, 
she  said,  were  her  husbands — perhaps  she  did  not  care 
to  have  thousands  of  Dutch  husbands  as  well.  She  sent 
the  Earl  of  Leicester  to  take  care  of  them  ;  but  the  only 
result  of  that  was  that   England   lost  the   bravest  and 


ELIZABETH  205 

best  of  all  her  knights,  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  the  one  man 
who  dared  to  speak  the  truth  to  her  without  getting 
an  ague.  She  became  more  and  more  of  a  tyrant.  Even 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  the  gallant  who  fh'st  attracted  her 
attention  by  spoiling  a  beautiful  new  cloak  that  she 
might  not  have  muddy  shoes — the  brave  discoverer  who 
discovered  potatoes,  and  tobacco,  and  a  new  province 
in  America,  which  he  called  Virginia  in  honour  of 
the  Virgin  Queen — even  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  very 
much  afraid. 

*  Fain  would  I  climb,  but  that  I  fear  to  fall,'  he  wrote 
one  day — as  usual  upon  a  window— as  usual,  I  suppose, 
with  the  point  of  a  diamond.  There  were  so  many 
diamonds  about  the  world  just  then.  And  the  queen 
took  another,  and  underneath  '  Fain  would  I  climb,  but 
that  I  fear  to  fall,"  she  wrote  :  '  If  your  heart  fail  you,  do 
not  climb  at  all."'  Needless  to  say  that  Raleigh  did 
climb — but  he  fell,  whether  his  heart  failed  him  or  no. 
His  friend  Spenser  sang  of  Elizabeth  as  the  Fairy 
Queen.  When  Spenser  died,  and  was  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  it  is  said  that  all  the  other  poets  went 
to  the  funeral  and  dropped  their  pens  into  his  grave. 
There  lies,  for  all  we  know,  the  pen  of  Shakespeare. 
Shakespeare  lived  longer  than  Queen  Elizabeth.  He 
paid  her  a  magnificent  compliment  in  the  Midsummer 
NigJifs  Dream,  when  he  said  that  the  God  of  Love  had 
no  power  to  wound  her,  for,  however  hard  he  might  try, 
'  still  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on,  in  maiden  medita- 
tion, fancy-free.' 

But  as  the  years  went  on  he  saw  the  imperial  votaress, 
the  Fairy  Queen,  grow  very  old  and  wrinkled,  very 
capricious  and  cruel,  and  when  she  died  he  did  not 
pretend  to  mourn  for  her. 


206  ESSAYS 

For  the  last  years  were  not  the  best.  After  the  years 
of  plenty  came  the  years  of  famine.  She  did  not  like  to 
think  she  was  growing  old — we  none  of  us  do.  When 
the  Bishop  of  St.  David's  preached  before  her  on  the 
text,  '  Lord,  teach  us  to  number  our  days,  that  we 
may  apply  our  hearts  unto  wisdom,'  she  did  not  thank 
him  as  was  her  usual  custom  when  the  sermon  was 
over.  No,  no !  '  Yon  might  have  kept  your  arithmetic 
for  yourself,'  said  she ;  '  but  I  see  that  the  greatest 
clerks  are  not  the  wisest  men.' 

Lord  Burghley  died;  and  it  was  long  before  she 
could  mention  his  name  without  tears.  She  seems  to 
have  cried  very  easily,  by  the  way,  judging  from  the 
large  number  of  persons  who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of 
seeino-  her  weep.  When  she  was  really  in  deep  distress, 
she  did  not  cry,  I  think,  she  sighed.  A  kinsman  of  hers, 
Robert  Carey,  says  that  he  heard  her  sigh  a  few  days 
before  her  own  death,  'forty  or  fifty  great  sighs,'  just 
as  she  sighed  after  the  death  of  the  Queen  of  Scots. 
Buro-hley  was  dead,  but  still  she  had  his  son — the  son 
whom  she  had  made  Sir  Robert  Cecil — to  help  her. 

Leicester  was  dead,  and  a  new  favourite  reigned,  the 
Earl  of  Essex,  but  he  was  very  disobedient,  and  though, 
after  his  fits  of  naughtiness,  he  said  he  was  like 
Nebuchadnezzar,  content  to  eat  grass  like  an  ox  and 
be  wet  with  the  dew  of  heaven,  till  it  should  please  her 
Majesty  to  restore  him  to  his  understanding,  she  could 
not  make  him  thoroughly  subservient.  She  did  not 
want  him  to  eat  grass  like  an  ox,  she  Avanted  him  to  do 
what  she  told  him  to  do,  and  as  he  would  not — off  went 
his  head  !  The  people  here  in  London  loved  him.  He 
had  tried  to  win  them  to  come  with  him  to  the  Queen, 
but  when  the   moment  arrived,  they  all  got  the  ague. 


ELIZABETH  207 

Nevertheless  they  could  not  forgive  the  Queen  for  cutting 
off'  his  head.  She  began  to  lose  the  thing  that  she  cared 
for  most  of  all — the  love  of  her  people.  Once  more  she 
made  them  a  magnificent  speech. 

'  It  was  Elizabeth's  last  great  triumph.''  The  world 
was  passing  away  from  her.  They  tried  to  flatter  and 
to  amuse  her  as  of  old.  '  When  thou  dost  feel  creeping 
time  at  thy  gate,'  she  said  to  her  godson,  who  had  been 
writing  verses  for  her,  'these  fooleries  will  please  thee 
less."  It  was  then  that  Robert  Carey  found  her  sitting 
on  cushions  on  the  floor  sighing  heavily.  What  was  she 
thinking  of?  Not  of  Hatfield,  not  of  Tilbury,  not  of 
the  glorious  days  at  Kenilworth  when  Leicester  feasted 
her,  not  even  of  Essex  and  his  rebellion  and  his  doom. 
Before  her  eyes  there  stood  that  awful  scaffold  at 
Fotheringay — the  woman,  the  sister  Queen,  the  bird 
which  had  fled  to  her  for  succour  and  died.  'Then, 
upon  my  knowledge,  she  shed  many  tears  and  sighs, 
manifesting  her  innocence  that  she  never  gave  consent 
to  the  death  of  that  Queen.'  In  vain  did  Carey  try  to 
comfort  her.  Next  day  was  Sunday,  and  she  had  ordered 
a  room  to  be  prepared  for  her  to  go  to  chapel.  Long 
the  courtiers  waited;  she  did  not  come.  At  last  one  of 
the  grooms  of  her  chamber  came  out.  She  was  not  able 
to  go  so  far  as  to  the  great  room.  She  would  have 
.service  in  the  private  room  close  by.  There  cushions 
were  laid  for  her. 

Four  days  and  nights  she  lay  upon  her  cushions, 
neither  eating  nor  sleeping,  suffering  from  restlessness 
and  thirst.  She  was  weary  of  life,  and  yet  slie  shrank 
from  death.  The  Lord  Admiral  Howard,  the  person 
who  had  most  influence,  was  sent  for.  He  came  and 
knelt  beside  her,  kissing  her  hands,  imploring  her  with 


208  ESSAYS 

tears  to  take  some  food.  After  a  long  while  she  let 
him  give  her  a  little  broth  ;  and  then,  encouraged  by 
success,  he  ventured  to  urge  upon  her  that  she  should 
go  to  bed. 

'  If  you  saw  such  things  in  your  bed,'  she  said,  'as  I  see 
when  I  am  in  mine,  you  would  not  persuade  me." 

At  last  Cecil  appealed  to  her  in  the  name  of  her 
people.  'To  content  the  people,'  he  said,  'your  Majesty 
must  go  to  bed.'  At  this  all  her  old  spirit  returned. 
'  The  word  must  is  not  used  to  princes,'  said  she.  '  Little 
man,  little  man,  if  your  father  had  lived,  you  durst  not 
have  said  so  much,  but  you  know  I  must  die  and  that 
makes  you  presumptuous.'  Cecil  was  bidden  to  go — and 
all  the  rest,  except  Howard.  '  My  lord,  I  am  tied  with  a 
chain  of  iron  about  my  neck,'  she  murmured.  Worse 
and  worse  she  grew — more  and  more  silent,  speaking  only 
twice  or  thrice  in  the  twenty-four  hours—  at  last,  for  one 
long  day  and  night,  remaining  utterly  silent,  her  finger 
in  her  mouth,  her  'rayless  eyes'  open.  Her  ladies  could 
hardly  stand  the  strain. 

The  Archbishop  and  her  chaplains  came  to  her.  He 
told  her  that  she  ought  to  hope  much  in  the  mercy  of 
God.  Her  piety — her  zeal — the  admirable  work  that 
she  had  done — and  so  on  and  so  on.  '  My  lord,'  she 
said,  '  the  crown,  which  I  have  borne  so  long,  has  given 
enough  vanity  in  my  time.  I  beseech  you  not  to  increase 
it  in  this  hour,  when  I  am  so  near  my  death.'  Long  and 
late  he  remained,  praying  by  her  ^ide.  At  last  he  left 
her;  she  sank  into  a  deep  sleep  from  which  she  never 
awakened.  '  A  few  hours  later  Robert  Carey  was  riding 
hard  along  the  North  Road,'  to  be  the  first  to  tell  the 
son  of  Mary  Stuart  that  he  was  king. 

It  was  a  strange  thing  to  stand  in  Westminster  Abbey 


ELIZABETH  209 

between  the  grave  of  Mary  Stuart  and  the  grave  in  which 
Elizabeth  was  laid  by  the  side  of  her  own  half-sister, 
Mary.  If  she  had  never  lived — had  never  reigned — 
London  would  not  have  been  what  it  is  to-day,  and  every 
one  of  us  here  in  this  room  to-night  would  have  been 
different.  Every  church,  every  chapel,  would  have  borne 
a  different  character.  The  river  would  not  have  been 
crowded,  as  it  is  to-day,  with  those  great  ships  that  are 
the  road  to  another  England  across  the  seas.  The  shops 
would  not  have  been  as  they  are  now — nor  the  city.  Up 
to  Elizabeth's  time  business  was  carried  on  in  the  open 
street,  or — a  curious  place  for  it — in  the  nave  of  St.  PauTs 
Cathedral.  In  her  time  Sir  Thomas  Gresham  built  the 
Royal  Exchange,  and  asked  her  to  come  and  open  it. 
Londoners,  as  a  rule,  are  not  fond  of  new  inventions,  and 
he  could  not  feel  sure  whether  he  would  be  successful  in 
letting  the  new  shops  that  he  had  built  all  round.  So 
he  went,  cunning  man  (lie  was  the  sort  of  man  that 
Elizabeth  could  understand),  to  the  leading  shopkeepers 
and  told  them  that,  if  they  would  be  so  kind  as  to  come, 
and  put  out  their  wares  in  the  windows,  and  light  a  few 
candles  in  honour  of  Her  Majesty's  condescension  in 
appearing  there,  to  make  everything  look  prosperous  and 
bright  and  pretty,  he  would  let  them  have  the  shops 
rent-free  for  a  year.  Of  course  they  came — of  course 
they  lighted  the  candles,  of  course  they  availed  them- 
selves of  the  kind  permission  to  stay  a  year  rent-free,  of 
course  at  the  end  of  the  year  they  did  not  want  to  leave, 
they  took  the  shops  on — and  you  know — or  perhaps  you 
do  not  know — what  land  is  worth  now  in  the  city.  If 
Queen  Elizabeth  had  never  lived  and  reigned,  we  should 
not  have  had  an  excellent  Poor  Law.  Whenever  we  go 
against  it,  poverty  grows  more,  whenever  we  observe  it, 
o 


210  ESSAYS 

poverty  grows  less.  If  Queen  Elizabeth  had  never  lived 
and  reigned,  Shakespeare  would  never  have  written  as  he 
did,  and  you  would  not  have  been  going  to  see — as  I 
hope  you  do  sometimes  go  to  see — A  Midsummer  Nighfs 
Dream,  Macbeth,  Henrij  V.,  and  many  another  wondrous 
play.  If  Queen  Elizabeth  had  never  lived  and  reigned, 
Sir  Walter  Scott  would  not  have  written  KcnUicorth,  a 
novel  that  you  have  all  read,  I  am  sure,  or  one  that  you 
all  mean  to  read  some  day — a  finer  novel  than  any  one 
alive  could  write  now.  Would  that  we  had  kept  the 
Great  Eliza's  love  of  music,  and  the  love  of  it  in  the 
England  of  her  day  !  In  every  little  barber's  shop  there 
hung  two  instruments  upon  the  wall,  so  that  one  customer 
and  another  might  amuse  himself  singing  and  playing 
while  the  other  was  shaved  or  had  his  hair  cut.  I  am 
afraid  she  and  her  people  would  not  have  thought  much 
of  music-halls  and  musical  comedy ;  they  liked  better 
music  than  that,  and  prettier  words  too. 

'  So  passes  away  the  glory  of  the  world  ! '  As  a  dream 
— as  a  shadow — as  the  tinkling  sound  of  the  thin  and 
delicate  old  music  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  day.  '  Death  lays 
his  icy  hand  on  kings.'  They  are  gone,  but  none  of  the 
merciful  forgetfulness  that  will  shroud  your  name  and 
mine  is  permitted  to  throw  a  veil  over  the  ill  that  they 
have  done.  Terrible  are  their  responsibilities.  If  they 
have  failed  and  fallen,  what  are  we  that  we  should  judge  ? 
We  cannot  but  shudder  at  the  cruelty  of  Elizabeth — we 
cannot  but  disdain  her  monstrous  vanity.  When  we 
have  done  shuddering  at  her  and  despising  her,  let  us 
remember  that  it  was  she  who  made  England  what  it  is 
— and  she  who  set  the  great  example  of  love  towards  her 
native  land — and  she  who  fired  the  hearts  of  men  to  fight 
for  justice. 


THE  WILL  TO  DIE  211 


THE  WILL  TO  DIE^ 

'  A  MAN  would  die,'  said  Bacon,  'though  he  were  neither 
valiant  nor  miserable,  onely  upon  a  wearinesse  to  doe  the 
same  thing  so  oft  over  and  over/ 

Therein  he  betrayed  the  ennui  that  is,  at  times,  the 
portion  of  the  wise,  evening  himself  with  the  world-weary 
sage  of  '  The  thing  that  hath  been,  it  is  that  which  shall 
be,""  Perhaps  also  there  spoke  in  him  the  venturesome 
restlessness  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  when  no  man  could 
be  content  without  a  new  kingdom  to  conquer,  and  to 
sit  still  was  not  to  live  at  all.  In  every  age  men  of  other 
ages  abound ;  and  the  attitude  of  mind  is  by  no  means 
inconceivable  now. 

The  people  who  want  to  die — and  there  are  many — 
do  not,  as  a  rule,  want  to  die  because  they  are  intoler- 
ably tired  of  doing  over  and  over  again  the  two  or  three 
things  which  are  necessary  to  human  existence.  They 
want  to  die  because  their  friends  have  died,  or  because 
they  cannot  endure  the  responsibility  of  their  actions,  or 
because  they  are  out  of  health. 

One  of  the  most  profound  interpreters  of  the  time, 
Henrik  Ibsen,  inculcates  firmly  the  love  of  darkness.  It 
is  light,  says  he,  that  makes  men  discontented.  Darkness 
is  natural  to  him  as  water  to  a  fish  ;    if  he  could  but 

'  Fragmenls  from  an  Essay  called  by  this  name.     Date  unknown. 


212  ESSAYS 

remain  in  his  own  element,  he  would  be  better  off'.  A 
natural  reaction,  after  the  thirst  for  light  that  led  to 
the  discoveries  of  science  in  recent  years !  '  Dark  with 
excess  of  bright,""  mortal  eyes  turn  away  gladly  to  night, 
mystery,  death.  The  end  of  too  much  knowledge,  too 
easily  acquired,  is,  as  it  always  has  been,  satiety  and 
shamed  self-consciousness.  O  for  a  black  veil  to  hide  us 
from  ourselves,  and  from  each  other  !  '  Welcome,  Sister 
Death ! '  And  yet  is  she  welcome  ?  No ;  for  some, 
though  they  dread  neither  agony  nor  extinction,  fear — 
that  worst  fearing  of  all — they  do  not  know  what. 

.  .  .  We  are  constrained  to  admit  that  Bacon  must 
be  overwhelmingly  in  the  right  when  he  says  that  there 
is  no  passion  so  weak  but  it  will  conquer  the  fear  of 
death.  Curiosity,  so  doctors  tell  us,  conquers  it  in  almost 
every  case  with  which  they  deal.  Now  this  is  a  good, 
robust  passion,  accountable  for  many  crimes  and  for  much 
heroic  behaviour ;  but  the  instance  given  by  Bacon  is 
curious.  Many  Romans,  it  appears,  after  the  Emperor 
Otho  had  taken  his  own  life,  killed  themselves  out  of 
piti^ — a  passion  which,  with  characteristic  phlegm,  he 
calls  the  weakest  of  all.  Surely  this  was  but  a  local, 
temporary  scorn  of  Man's  enemy.  At  Rome  the 
Almighty  had  not  fixed  His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter ; 
it  was  held  honourable  there.  Compassion  for  Otho 
would  not,  maybe,  have  led  his  adherents  to  go  so  far, 
if  they  had  not  hoped  that  they  might  win  fame,  a  hope 
which  is  at  all  times  powerful  %yith  the  human  race, 
seeing  that  it  is  rooted  in  one  of  our  deepest  foundations 
— vanity.  The  indignant  contempt  of  Queen  Victoria, 
had  any  one  proposed  to  honour  her  demise  after  this 
fashion,  may  be  imagined  ;  yet  she  was  far  more  widely 
and  deeply  loved  than  Otho  could  have  been.    There  was 


THK  WILT.  TO  DIE  213 

a  debate  upon  the  subject  among  the  native  adorers  of 
Nicholson,  when  he  fell  at  Delhi.  Four  of  them  elected 
to  die  because  he  had  died ;  they  wished  to  serve  him  in 
the  under  world,  A  fifth,  with  wise  comprehension  of 
the  man,  asserted  that  this  would  make  him  angry — that 
it  would  be  a  more  acceptable  tribute  to  Nicholson  if 
they  worshipped  Nicholson's  God.  And  he  went  to  seek 
Christian  instruction. 

That  rapture  in  the  contemplation  of  Death  which  is 
found  so  often  in  the  young,  and  in  those  persons 
dowered  with  eternal  youth  who  are  the  first  to  embrace 
new  forms  of  religion,  depends  in  great  measure  on  the 
state  of  the  blood.  Reason  has  little  to  do  with  it.  We 
are  not  martyrs  because  we  are  convinced.  '  I  do  not 
believe  in  God.     I  know  Him.' 

Grand  as  the  death  of  a  man  '  drunken  with  God  "■ 
must  be,  we  are  more  moved  as  we  grow  older  by  the 
quiet  jests  and  courtesies  of  the  balanced  mind  that 
refuses  to  make  either  a  fast  or  a  feast  of  the  occasion. 
'  Pity  that  should  be  cut  that  hath  never  committed 
treason,"'  said  Sir  Thomas  More  to  his  beard  as  he  put  it 
out  of  the  way  of  the  executioner;  and  the  little  Socratic 
joke  in  tune  with  the  whole  life  of  a  leading  scholar  of 
the  Renaissance,  gives  us  rarer  delight  than  the  high 
ecstasy  of  that  Marian  martyr  on  the  other  side  who 
went  dancing  into  the  flames. 

After  all,  Romans  and  Greeks  are  not  so  distant. 
Their  opinions  were  often  like  our  own — strong,  but  by 
no  means  clear.  Our  politicians,  our  more  liberal  Church- 
men, would  converse  with  Plato  or  with  Cicero  on  terms 
of  easier    mutual    understandino;  than   with   the    Ninth 


S14  ESSAYS 

Louis.  Our  women  would  sympathise  with  Alcestis  more 
readily  than  with  St.  Elizabeth.  In  the  Middle  Ages 
the  feminine  element  overpowered  every  other.  The 
position  of  women  became  wholly  unnatural.  The  noblest 
men  turned  themselves  into  women,  like  Francis  of  Assisi. 
The  noblest  women  became  nuns. 

There  are  among  poets  of  the  younger  school  some 
who  conceive  of  death  as  a  condition  of  gray,  weary, 
dream-like  exile,  neither  wholly  material  nor  yet  free 
from  the  bonds  of  matter — a  condition  in  which  ghosts 
are  more  familiar  than  souls,  good  or  bad. 

Milton,  who  believed  that  a  spirit  was  something  more 
solid  than  a  man,  would  not  have  understood  this.  Nor 
would  Dante,  who  held  that  the  spirit  is  the  man,  and 
the  bodily  form  a  mere  accident.  They  lived  in  periods 
differing  greatly  one  from  the  other,  yet  alike  in  a  certain 
Puritanical  severity  that  compassed  life  round  with 
restrictions.  They  indemnified  themselves  with  the 
glorious  liberty  of  the  sons  of  God  in  the  life  to  come. 

Hezekiah  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  death  was 
a  great  evil,  and  many  a  Christian  who  says  of  his 
departed  friend  '  Poor  So-and-So  ! '  echoes  the  feeling  of 
Hezekiah.     A  natural  instinct  overbears  his  logic. 


COLLECTION  OF  PASSAGES  FROM 
LETTERS  AND  DLVRIES 


'\ 


COLLECTION  OF  PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS 
AND  DIARIES 

I.— From  1882  to  1897 

1882. 
'  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young '  and  whom  they  hate 
die  old,  but  whom  they  honour,  these  they  take  up  to 
their  eternal    habitations  in    the  ripe    summer    time  of 
existence. 


1883. 
To-morrow — double  Janus-headed  to-morrow — bless- 
ing and  curse  of  frail  liumanity.  But  for  thee,  the  pleasure 
of  to-day  would  be  Heaven,  but  for  thee,  to-day "'s  load  of 
misery  could  not  be  borne,  but  for  thee,  we  should  be 
immortal,  and  but  for  thee,  I  should  make  my  will  this 
instant.  What  art  thou  ?  Nothing — here  in  Time,  where 
all  is  to-day.  Everything  in  that  eternity  which  is  but 
a  succession  of  To-morrows. 


188.3. 

In  the  midst  of  nnich  trouble,  much  doubt,  much  fear, 
many  failings,  I  feel  a  steady  gladness  in  the  thought 
that   I  am  drawing  nearer  to  that  end  which  must  be 


218    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

great,  to  that  beginning  which   must  be  as  a  flood  of 
light  after  darkness. 


Goethe  conquers  one''s  admiration,  willing  or  unwilling, 
step  by  step,  and  leads  one  down,  down  into  what  seem 
to  be  depths  of  thinking,  till  suddenly  the  stars  begin 
to  shine ;  but  with  Schiller  it  is  morning,  and  people 
are  still  young,  and  death  is  only  what  it  is  to  the 
young,  a  glory  and  a  hope.  All  his  tragedies  together 
are  joyous,  compared  to  the  gay  bits  of  Wilhclm  Meiftcr. 


1884. 

To-night  men  save  the  lost  and  preach  for  life  the 
Gospel  of  Destruction.  To-night  men  sit  at  ease  and 
drink  away  their  very  souls  to  Satan.  To-night  men's 
hearts  are  broken,  and  men's  fortunes  are  made.  To- 
night men  pause  upon  the  verge  of  crime  unspeakable 
and  climb  to  the  triumphant  height  of  heroes.  To- 
night men  die  and  are  bom.  To-night  also  the  stars 
are  shining  and  the  winds  at  peace. 


1886. 

They  err  who  say  that  without  love  is  no  joy.  There 
is  a  joy  of  the  intellect  with  which  the  heart  has  nothing 
to  do.  It  is  like  a  little  ray  of  candle-light  by  which 
darkness  becomes  visible.  But  the  joy  of  love  is  sun- 
shine. 


It  was  delightful  to  hear  of  your  looking  out  at  the 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    219 

stars  for  sympathy  when  you  felt  low,  and  getting  better 
directly ;  they  have  so  often  comforted  me.  They  are 
the  blessedest,  most  soothing  influences.  Theirs  is  the 
only  brightness  that  never  jars.  How  odd,  to  think 
that  a  lot  of  great  big  blundering  worlds,  first-cousins 
to  our  own,  should  have  that  power  to  quiet  one. 


1887. 
Surely  Shelley  wasn't  quite  such  a  wretch  as  you  think 
him  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  Godwin  evilangelized  him  so 
very  successfully  that  one  can  only  pity  him,  not  con- 
demn him  for  many  of  his  misdeeds ;  they  were  errors 
of  judgment  rather  than  sins.  Of  course  that  cannot 
be  said  of  all.  He  was  terribly  wrong, — yet,  do  you 
know,  sins  and  all,  he  never  repels  me  for  a  moment, 
as  does  a  man  like  Carlyle,  for  instance,  whose  life  is 
moral,  but  whose  character  is  utterly  immoral,  being 
grounded  in  selfishness  and  intolerance ;  or  like  Words- 
worth, who  was  false  to  the  ideal  of  his  youth  for  want 
of  faith.  Mary  is  a  dreadful  bore  with  her  eternal  '  Read 
Greek'  and  her  journal.  She  reminds  me  oddly  of 
Sarah  Coleridge,  in  whose  letters  I  can  see  no  charm 
whatever.  They  are  both  so  Englishwomanly.  They 
certainly  have  imagination,  and  when  they  set  it  to 
work  it  works  successfully.  I  love  Phantasmion,  I  dare 
say  I  should  love  Frankenstein.  But  it  does  not  play 
about  in  their  ordinary  writings  or  lend  any  grace  to 
their  lives.     It  is  all  cold. 


1888. 
Dove  sono   i  bet  mornent't^'     Sometimes  we  lose   the 


220    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

Present  Tense  of  life  altogether.  For  Anodos  this 
morning  is  last  night.  Last  night  he  was  up  in  the 
Gallery  at  Covent  Garden,  happy  as  a  god,  listening  to 
Figaro,  and  tho'  he  has  been  to  bed  in  the  interval, 
there  he  still  is,  and  there  he  is  likely  to  remain. 
Figai-o  gives  him  the  same  kind  of  pleasure  as  The 
Merchant  or  As  You  Like  It.  Perfect  comedy  is 
almost  too  beautiful  to  laugh  at,  as  perfect  tragedy  is 
'too  deep  for  tears.'  Much  of  it  is  a  joy  of  pure 
sensation,  like  riding  or  swimming,  for  those  who  have 
not  been  trained  to  understand  music,  but  there  are 
things  which  inspire  a  feeling  beyond  all  definition. 
Poetically  it  reminds  me  of  Chaucer,  it  is  so  simple, 
youthful  and  vigorous. 


April  is  the  month  of  lovers'  quarrels  between  the 
Earth  and  the  Sky,  and  an  engagement  is  nothing 
without  them.  May  is  the  month  for  Confirmations. 
The  soft  pink-and-white  girlish  faces  under  their  floating 
veils  look  like  a  cloud  of  May  blossoms,  and  not  inaptly 
might  those  youthful  vows  be  called  '  The  Promise  of 
May.'  Marriage  is  for  hot  June,  and  Death  for  cold 
December. 


'  June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer.'  It  is  God's 
alms  to  the  poor.  He  feeds  them  .with  the  sweet  air, 
He  clothes  their  naked  bodies  with  the  warmth  of  the 
sunshine.  I  never  feel  inclined  to  be  charitable  in  June. 
It  seems  to  me  that  Heaven  has  taken  it  off  my  hands, 
and  I  am  sorry  for  no  one.  Old  women  who  sit  all  day 
long  at  street  corners  move  me  not.     Vagrant  families 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    221 

provoke  only  a  smile.  Little  boys  without  any  boots 
make  me  feel  rather  envious.  Anybody  who  is  well 
enough    to    be   out   anywhere    deserves    not    pity. 


Talk  of  myriad -minded  Shakespeare.  Why,  the  com- 
monest man  breathing  has  many,  many  more  than  a 
myriad  minds.  I  am  a  different  person  every  twelve 
hours.  I  go  to  bed  as  feminine  as  Ophelia,  fiery,  en- 
thusiastic, ready  to  go  to  the  stake  for  some  righteous 
cause.  I  get  up  the  very  next  morning,  almost  as  mascu- 
line as  Falstaff,  grumbling  at  Family  Prayers.  Is  it 
possible  for  me  to  believe  that  I  am  really  the  hero  of 
the  night  before  ?  Personal  identity  ?  People  are  fools 
that  doubt  it  ?  Upon  my  word,  I  think  we  are  much 
greater  fools  to  believe  in  it.  It  is  only  the  stupid 
transitory  flesh  in  which  we  walk  about  that  makes  us. 
We  believe  it  for  others,  not  for  ourselves. 

Anodos  has  over  and  over  again  been  conscious,  both 
for  good  and  evil,  that  he  was  being  rented  by  a  spirit 
not  his  own,  and  when  his  body  goes  to  sleep,  he  is  in 
all  probability  animating  another  one  at  the  Antipodes. 
Of  course  he  cannot  be  found  out  in  this  Box  and  Cox 
arrangement ;  he  cannot  even  find  out  himself  .  .  . 
Nature  is  ever  economical,  and  souls  are  her  very  dearest 
commodity.  It  probably  takes  her  as  long  to  manu- 
facture even  a  baby's  soul,  as  it  does  to  turn  out  ten 
elephants. 


June  1888. 
If  Anodos  had  a  boy  (which,  thank   kind  heaven  !  he 


222    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

has  not),  he  should  go  to  Eton.  Windsor  Castle  teaches 
a  better  kind  of  rovalty  than  can  be  learnt  in  courts,  and 
to  love  a  river  is  to  love  poetry  in  one  of  its  most  visible 
forms. 


8rd  June  1888. 
Anodos    had    in   his    early    youth   a   great    liking  for 
sermons.     Not  that   he  ever  understood  or  remembered 
them,  but  the  taste  of  them  was   sweet    to  his    palate. 
It  is  not  so  now.     He  left  Church  this  morning  especially 
to  avoid  one.     Outside  the  birds  held  Morningsong,  and 
the  wind  that  bloweth  where  it  listeth  preached  out  of 
St.    John's    Gospel,    '  Thou    canst    not    tell    whence    it 
Cometh."      It    might    have    been    crisping    the    waves, 
ruffling  the  heather,  scattering  the  powdery  snow  upon 
some  distant  Alp,  before  it  folded  its  great  wings,  and 
fluttered  peacefully  down  into  that  London  Churchyard. 
....  I  incline  to  think  that  it  is  not  three  people  who 
make  a  congregation,  but  one.     Alone,  I  am  a  host  in 
myself;  oppressed   on  every  side  by  masses  of  yawning 
fellow-Christians,  how   can   I    be    devout  ?    (I    am    not.) 
Even    if  they    are    not   yawning,    what    is   the   feverish 
excitement  of  a  crowd   hanging  on   the  rhetoric  of  the 
local  Vicar  to  the  quiet  Apocalypse  of  a  solitary  person 
under  the  sky  among  trees .''     '  The  heavens  declare  the 
glory    of  God  :  and  the  firmament  showeth   His  handi- 
work."    After  all,  even  a   Cathedral  declares   the  glory 
of  Man. 


Ju/y  l.st,  1888. 
To    worship   God    in   silence    is   noble ;    it  shows    the 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    223 

poverty  and  unworthiness  of  speech,  by  exalting  thought 
above  it.  In  the  finest  silence  of  all,  '  Thought  is  not ; 
in  enjoyment  it  expires,''  and  the  worship  of  joy  is  the 
worship  of  angels.  But  to  worship  God  with  impromptu 
words  is  ignoble,  for  unconsidered  speech  is  the  least  that 
a  man  can  offer. 


July  'Ind,  1888. 
Roman  remains  depress  me.  It  seems  so  impossible  to 
reconstruct  people  out  of  them.  If  there  is  nothing 
tangible  left  of  us  but  sixpences  and  shillings,  and  fonts, 
and  kitchen  saucepans,  and  sanitary  arrangements,  how 
will  the  New  Zealander  that  sits  on  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul's 
ever  know  what  we  were  like  ?  A  Roman  hairpin  is 
something.     It  helps  one  just  a  little  towards  a  lady. 


J  III  11  -lUt,  1888. 
Solitude  affects  some  people  like  wine.  They  must  not 
take  too  much  of  it.  It  flies  to  the  head,  and  they 
become  intoxicated.  Too  much  society  is  far  better 
for  a  man  than  too  little.  Abstractions  become  real, 
realities  abstract,  to  an  over-contemplative  person.  Odd 
that  it  was  Peter,  the  least,  not  John  the  most  contem- 
plative of  the  three  chosen  Disciples,  who  cried  out  to 
stay  for  ever  upon  the  Mount  of  Transfiguration,  because  it 
was  good  for  him  to  be  there.  But  many  an  active- 
minded  man  since  has  over-estimated  the  glory  of  con- 
templative hero  worship,  and  lived  to  rue  the  day  when 
he  built  a  tabernacle  on  a  mountain  for  some  ideal  master 
of  his,  and  refused  to  come  down.  The  true  masters  are 
not  they  that  will  live  in  such  tabernacles. 


224    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 


July  23rd,  1888. 
I  suppose  the  most  undramatic  people  in  the  world 
have  a  tendency  to  act  somewhere,  somehow.  You 
cannot  divide  the  world  into  actors  and  non-actors.  'Tis 
everi^  man  that 's  a  player.  Only  they  play  to  different 
audiences,  some  to  other  men,  some  to  women,  some  to 
themselves,  some  to  God.  Gordon  was  always  finding 
himself  out  at  it,  and  hissing  the  performer.  It  is  this 
which  gives  his  Journal  and  his  letters  their  unique 
character.  He  knew,  and  he  forced  himself  to  say  that  he 
knew,  he  would  rather  have  so  many  soldiers  at  his 
command  than  trust  God  to  look  after  him.  Most  men 
are  unconscious  actors.  This  rare  man  knew  when  the 
mask  stiffened  over  the  natural  face.  We  are  so  well 
accustomed  to  the  acting,  that  when  some  sudden  event 
interrupts  it,  and  people  are  themselves  for  a  minute  or 
two,  we  always  say  they  are  in  an  unnatural  state. 
Lovers,  being  absorbed  in  each  other,  sometimes  forget 
to  act  for  weeks  together.  Civilised  humanity  found  it 
impossible  to  stand  this,  and  invented  the  honeymoon. 


Auff.  SOth,  1888. 

No    moon,    but    multitudes   of  stars.     E and    I, 

walking  along  the  cliff,  lay  down  on  our  backs  to  look  at 
them.  What  strange  things  people  are  pitied  for  !  I  can 
imagine  nothing  more  divine  than  ^drowning  on  a  night 
like  that.  It  is  the  sort  of  death  a  god  would  choose,  if 
he  could  die.     Not  so  our  God  in  the  midnight  noon  of 

Calvary.     E talked  about    the  motherliness  of  the 

sea.  '  Yes,'  I  said,  'it's  a  comfort  to  think  that  to  her 
the  oldest  of  us  are  babies.'     But  I  was  much  too  happy 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    225 

for  anything  of  that  kind.  '  Thought  was  not,  in  enjoy- 
ment it  expired.'  Those  monumental  stars,  homes  of 
poets  for  ever.  The  eyes  of  David,  Phito,  Sliakespeare, 
rested  where  ours  rest  now.  They  shone  through  the 
three  kingdoms  of  the  dead  for  Dante.  Goethe  looked 
at  them,  writing  his  Faust.  There  was  music  afterwards 
— '  Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest.' 


Oct.  31.SY,  1888. 
Why  are  a  man's  words  bound  to  be  true,  when  half 
his  deeds  at  least  are  sure  to  be  false  ? 


Nov.  3rd,  1888. 
There  is   delightful  freemasonry  in  a  fog.     Ignorant 
people  will  always  help  each  other.     Half  knowledge  is 
very  conununicable ;  not  so  knowledge. 


Dec.  ISth,  1888. 
We  give  more  truth  to  those  we  hate  than  to  those  we 
love.  To  the  latter  we  are  our  souls  only,  the  part  and 
not  the  whole,  or  some  entirely  fictitious  person,  invented 
for  their  benefit,  a  person  who  always  likes  what  they 
like  and  never  sets  tired. 


Sept.  4//t,1889. 

It  seems  to  me  nothing  should  be  done,  when  you  are 

not  in   the  mood   for  it,   except   Duty.     '  Love   me,  or 

leave  me  alone.'     People  who  are  always  in  the  mood  for 

Duty  make  Saints,  and  people  who  are  often  in  the  mood 

f 


226    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

for  it,  Heroes.  They  live  con  amore;  the  rest  of  us 
only  par  condescendance — which  is  not  the  way  to  get 
on.  Their  own  life  keeps  them  warm.  They  are  not  so 
dependent  as  the  rest  of  us  upon  some  other.  Perhaps 
they  have  never  felt  the  imperious  longing  for  an  echo, 
however  faint,  so  only  it  were  true,  of  their  own  existence, 
that  makes  some  people  lonely.  Millions  of  people  dead, 
not  one  the  same,  millions  alive  now,  not  one  with  so 
much  as  an  eye  the  same  as  mine,  millions  to  come,  all 
different. 


Nov.  28th,  1889. 
How  far  away  we  are  from  each  other.  Two  walls  of 
flesh  between  me  and  the  nearest  person  on  earth  !  Even 
the  eyes  mysterious.  I  look,  and  see  two  little  pictures 
of  my  outward  self,  when  all  I  long  for  is  the  image  of 
the  other  soul  at  those  windows ;  and  then,  we  may 
reduce  our  bodies  to  the  same  pace,  sit,  walk,  run  evenly 
together,  but  how  seldom  will  the  mind  run  in  couples ! 
My  neighbour's  mind  has  wings,  and  reaches  the  goal 
before  I  have  so  much  as  seen  it,  or  mine  is  half-way  to 
another  goal  by  mistake,  while  my  neighbour  is  labouring 
to  explain  where  it  is  that  he  wants  to  go  to. 


June  2nd,  1890. 
How  many  a    born    king  spends, his  whole  life  in  the 
pursuit  of  asses    for  want  of  some  kind  prophet  to  tell 
him  he  is  a  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  other  people ! 


I  have  been  reading  Hazlitt  with  even  keener  pleasure 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    227 

than  I  meant  to  get  out  of  him.  It  seems  to  me  the 
critics  of  those  days  were  flesh  and  blood  compared  to 
the  airv-fairy  creatures  that  carry  on  the  trade  now. 
They  iiad  much  more  sohd  beef  atid  mutton  books  to  fall 
back  upon.  The  background  of  their  minds  was  Shake- 
speare and  Spenser,  not  Slielley  and  Keats,  and  somehow 
one  feels  the  difference  in  the  downright  cut-and- thrust 
manliness  of  tlieir  style.  It's  not  so  dainty  of  course,  but 
I  can't  help  thinking  it  will  yet  manage  to  outlive  Mat 
Arnold  and  Andrew  Lang.  They  certainly  didn't  fight 
as  one  that  beateth  the  air. 


Ibsen's  delicate  way  of  unfolding  character  seems  to  me 
wonderful,  and  a  man  that  thoroughly  understands  a 
woman  was  a  very  great  man  indeed.  There  are  two  or 
three  people  who  can  tell  stories  about  her,  and  one  or 
two  who  can  put  her  into  a  book  without  killing  her 
during  the  process,  but  how  few  can  get  her  alive  on  to 
the  stage  not  laughing  only,  not  crying  only,  but  doing 
both,  and  that  not  hundreds  of  years  ago  in  blank  verse, 
but  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion,  and  talking  prose. 


March  UtJi,  1891. 
GhosU,  The  Light  that  Failed,  and  a  sermon  fifty-six 
minutes  long,  all  in  the  course  of  one  week,  would  be  too 
much  for  the  patience  of  a  female  Job.  I  am  perfectly  worn 
out  with  realism  and  the  want  of  it.  I  wish  it  were  rather 
less  the  fashion  in  literature  and  rather  more  the  fashion 
in  church.  Anent  Ghosts,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I 
always  begin  by  respecting  any  one  or  anything  that 
knocks  me  down,  so  on  Friday  night  I  was  sure  it  must 


228    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

'  make  for  righteousness.'  On  Saturday  morn,  when  I 
had  got  over  the  dizziness,  but  was  still  aching  mentally 
all  over  from  the  pain  of  it,  I  didn't  feel  quite  so  sure, 
and  by  Saturday  eve  I  felt  nearly  sure  that  it  made  for 
the  very  reverse.  .   .   . 


A  dull,  stunned  sensation  still  clings  to  me.  The  fruit 
of  the  modern  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  certainly  very  nasty  ; 
it  may  '  make  one  wise,'  but  it  is  not  '  a  thing  to  be 

desired.'     E says  Gliosis  is  like  a  Greek  play,  because 

no  catastrophe  happens  on  the  stage.  I  can't  feel  that. 
It  seems  to  me  rank  where  a  Greek  play  would  be  strong. 
There's  a  good  deal  of  heredity  in  (Edipiis,  and  the 
subject  is  quite  as  revolting,  but  the  difference  of  treat- 
ment prevents  one  frorii  feeling  it  in  the  same  way.  The 
Greeks  are  wild  to  kill  themselves  because  they  have  out- 
raged convention,  the  Scandinavians  are  wild  to  kill  con- 
vention, because  it  has  outraged  them.  No,  I  don't  think 
I  've  put  it  fairly  for  the  Greeks. 


Jnlp  23rd,  1891. 
These  wonderful  late  nights  and  early  mornings,  when 
there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  sky,  no  sound  but  the 
sea,  no  distinction  but  of  sun  or  riioon,  fill  all  my  mind 
for  the  time  being,  and  drown  the  very  thought  of  self. 
There  is  no  struggle  to  be  rid  of  it,  no  slaying  of  it  first 
and  rising  above  it.  It  goes.  I  feel  so  near  to  God,  that 
there  is  no  need  to  pray,  any  more  than  if  I  were  one  of 
His  birds. 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    229 

Ma;i  4fli,  1892. 
AVhcn  we  were  out.  this  afternoon,  we  saw  the  larks 
descending  to  the  ground,  almost  without  a  flutter  of 
their  wings,  as  if  they  flew  upon  their  singing.  Some 
people's  lives  are  like  that ;  they  progress  by  harmony 
rather  than  movement. 


Whether  we  love  each  other  because  we  are  like  or 
because  we  are  different,  or — as  I  am  far  more  inclined  to 
believe — for  no  reason  whatever,  which  is  as  much  as  to 
say  for  some  reason  so  deep  that  the  mind  of  man  cannot 
fathom  it — is  a  (juestion  to  whicli  I  never  find  any  answer 
that  satisfies  me.  For  I  think  it's  very  seldom  that  we 
are  alike  really,  any  two  of  us.  The  points  at  which  we 
touch  are  almostinfinitesimal  compared  with  the  vasttracts 
of  difference.  In  the  beginning  love  is  often  helped  by 
tiie  fancy  that  it  detects  a  similarity  which  does  not 
exist,  but  by  the  time  he  has  found  out  his  mistake  he  is 
far  too  happy  to  care  anything  about  such  a  trifle  as 
that. 


July  VMh,  1894. 
One  gets  a  hunger  for  certain  faces  and  to  feel  a  certain 

kind  of  love  round  one.    That  of  the 's  is  all  sheltering 

and  spoiling  and  yet  it  strengthens  one,  and  drives  one's 
worst  self  right  away.  I  can't  think  how  they  do  it.  It 
is  the  very  High  Art  of  Love.  There  is  an  art  of  it,  I  'm 
certain.  Some  people  never  get  beyond  being  brilliant 
amateurs,  and  some  are  good  serious  students,  always 
learning  their  lessons  in  it,  but  without  any  original  taste. 
How  funny  an  exhibition  of  us  would  be  if  we  were  all  hung 


230    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

up  as  each  otlier's  '  Works  "* !  Here  a  bit  of  character 
moulded  by  this  one,  there  another  moulded  by  that  one, 
each  with  its  own  stamp  on  it. 


April  28th,  1895. 
I  longed  for  something  to  draw  me  out  of  myself,  not 
to  sink  me  down  into  it.  If  it 's  lovely,  it 's  lovely,  but  if 
it"'s  not,  ifs  a  good  deal  worse  than  nothing  to  me.  Just 
during  the  last  few  minutes,  these  words  flashed  into  my 
mind  out  of  emptiness,  '  Surely,  the  Lord  was  in  this  place 
and  I  knew  it  not."  That  pleased  and  rested  me.  On 
the  Mount  of  Transfiguration  only  can  we  say,  '  Lord  it 
is  good  for  us  to  be  here,"*  but  of  almost  every  bit  of 
life  we  might  say,  '  The  Lord  was  in  this  place,"*  and 
even  if  we  do  not  know  it  at  the  time,  it  is  something 
to  know  it  after. 


July  1806. 

I  wonder  if  people  who  have  a  garden  enjoy  it  so 
absurdly    as  Londoners   enjoy  one    flower  ?     The   great 

tiger-lily  that  L ^s  father  brought  wastes  my  time 

almost  as  well  as  a  fire  in  winter. 

'  Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace,"  indeed  !  This  one 's  a 
real  tiger.  As  for  the  four  little  sunflowers  in  two  pots 
on  the  leads — or  sunleaves  rather,  for  the  flowers  lie  yet 
in  the  dark  abyss  of  the  future,-^— they  have  given  me 
many  a  '  green  thought  in  a  black  shade."  And  I  become 
unfriendly  to  the  Sun  himself,  if  I  think  he  is  scorching 
them,  and  beseech  the  winds  of  Heaven  that  they  visit 
them  not  too  roughly. 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES   231 

Mephisto  would  have  had  me  by  the  wrist  often 
enougii,  I  have  said  to  so  many  moments  of  life,  '  Stay, 
thou  art  fair  ! '  In  solitude — a  deux — even  a  trois.  (To 
be  happy  in  threes  is,  I  believe,  a  great  test  of  the  capa- 
city for  being  happy  at  all.)  Only  they  never  stayed. 
And  you  have  as  much  chance  of  finding  the  same 
moment  again  as  the  same  mortal.  Joy  is  a  host  of 
happinesses,  each  quite  unlike  all  the  rest.  A  thud 
behind  me.     Only  the  lily  falling  to  bits.     I  did  so  want 

her  to  stay  till  to-morrow,  so  that  the  St.  T s  might 

see  her.     But  she  won't  stay.     She  is  fair. 


March  2lst,  1897. 
There's   one  desire   I   never  can  resist — a  longing  to 
break  the  great  black  root,  a  lump  of  coal,  and  free  the 
golden  flower  within.     What  if  people  do  call  it  pro- 
saically 'poking  the  fire  from  the  top'? 


March  '29th,  1897. 
To  catch  the  sun   and    keep  him   in  a  book — what  a 
hopeless   business  !      Yet   never  twice   the    same   clouds 
gather  round  him  touched  with  the  same  colours;  it  is 
human  to  grasp  at  them. 

Thy  sua,  that  Adam  saw,  that  the  last  man  shall  see. 

Shining  on  thousands  also  shone  on  me. 

And  one  white  flower  of  Thine  born  yesterday 

To  wither  in  a  sunny  week  away, 

Sweet  to  me  only,  to  none  other  sweet, 

Seat  up  its  honied  fragrance  at  my  feet. 

A  fragment  of  grey  cloud  showed  against  the  gold  disk 


232    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

like  a  headless  cross.     Then  the  disk  was  striped  by  little 
swords  and  daggers  of  light — light  upon  light. 


For  me  the  hero  of  the  hour  is  that  Duke  of  Parma 
who  besieged  Antwerp  in  the  days  when  people  wore 
ruffs.  He  dedicated  the  siege  to  the  Virgin  Mary  and 
named  one  of  his  forts  after  her  and  one  after  his  king. 
'  Oh,  for  half  an  hour  of  Alexander  in  the  field  ! '  the 
soldiers  used  to  cry  ;  and  wherever  he  went  thev  won. 
Alexander  Farnese  was  his  magnificent,  ruff-like  name. 
I  am  also  more  in  love  with  Sir  Philip  Sidney  than  ever. 
He  died  of  a  wound  in  the  thigh,  and  as  he  lay  dying,  he 
asked  them  to  sing  him  a  song  called  The  BroAen  Thigh 
that  he  had  made  !  So  funny — so  pathetic,  somehow. 
And  he  was  always  telling  the  other  people,  who  were  in 
agonies  of  tears,  that  he  didn^t  mind  in  the  least — in  fact 
he  rather  liked  it.  Have  you  ever  read  Motley  ?  It  is 
so  fascinating.  And  then  one  turns  to  the  Daily  Tele- 
graphy and  there  is  the  Kaiser  giving  the  King  thirty-two 
hideous  silver-gilt  baskets  designed  by  himself — ugh  !  (I 
never  do  say  ugh !  but  it 's  a  comfortable  word  to  write 
— so  much  disgust  in  it.) 


How  curious  that  personal  touch  is  in  the  great  French 
historians.  Is  it  for  want  of  that  that  ours  are  such  dry 
stuff  in  comparison  ?  Michelet  falls  ill  of  overwork. 
'  J^ai  ahattu  trop  de  rois,''  and  he  does  another  enchanting 
volume.  Qualifications  absolutely  necessary  for  a  good 
historian:  1.  Imagination;  2.  Prejudice;  3.  the  power 
of  writing  your  own  biography  at  the  same  time. 


PASSAGES  FROM  LE'lTERS  AND  DIARIES    233 

How  dull  is  the  Life,  of  Dean  Church  !  How  much 
worse  than  dull  the  Life  of  Dr.  Pusey  !  I  think  the  devil 
writes  religious  biography.  There's  much  more  real 
religion  in  the  Bacchae  of  Euripides,  which  is  simply 
glorious — a  sort  of  Greek  Salvation  Army  business,  all 
drums  and  cymbals  and  ecstasy.  Macaulay  says  he 
hasn't  the  least  idea  whether  Euripides  meant  to  run  up 
or  run  down  fanaticism,  but  ifs  one  of  the  finest  things 
going.  The  revel  of  vine  and  ivy  and  bryony  and  wind 
— blown  torches  and  roofless  rocks  and  wild  delirious  joy 
in  freedom  and  music  and  open  air — is  quite  intoxicating. 
Then  there 's  Bacchus  himself,  the  god  come  down  in  the 
likeness  of  man,  the  men  of  Thebes  refusing  to  under- 
stand, obstinate  not  to  worship  him,  punished  accord- 
ingly. There's  no  real  tipsiness  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out.  The  Hallelujah  Lasses  get  drunk  on  the  wine  of 
the  spirit,  not  the  wine  of  the  grape. 


II.— Fkom  1897  TO  1907 

When  you  spoke  about  sex  the  other  night,  I  didn't 
think  much  about  it,  but  to-day  I  did,  and  I  know  now 
that  I  didn't  feel  with  you,  and  that  it  does  seem  to  me 
to  be  an  eternal  distinction.  I  don't  think  we  are  separ- 
ate only  in  body  and  in  mind,  I  think  we  are  separate  in 
soul  too,  and  that  a  woman's  prayer  is  as  different  from  a 
man's  as  a  woman's  thought  or  a  woman's  hand.  I  can- 
not think  of  souls  that  are  not  masculine  or  feminine  .  .  . 
but  just  as  the  negation  of  sex  is  inconceivable  to  me, 
so  is  its  unification  ;  I  cannot  think  that  we  shall  be  men 
as  well  as  women,  and  men  women  as  well  as  men.  If  we 
do  not  retain  sex  I  don't  see  how  we  can  retain  identity. 


S34    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

Male  and   female   we   were  created ;    it   is   of    the  very 
essence  of  our  nature. 


E and  I  went  to  the  National  Gallery  on  Saturday. 

We  looked  at  many  pictures,  but  we  thought  at  six — the 
three  ideal  Knights — Giorgione's,  Raphael's,  Velasquez's, 
two  Madonnas,  and  Botticelli's  '  Assumption  of  the 
Virgin.'  Certainly  Botticelli  was  one  of  those  who  saw 
'  Heaven  opened,'  though  it  thrills  one  to  think  how 
Heaven  has  widened  and  widened  since  the  day  that  he 
finished  his  last  golden  circle  of  stars. 


Woman  with  a  big  W  bores  me  supremely.  How 
<yvvrj  would  have  puzzled  the  beautiful  concrete  Greeks. 
It  is  a  mere  abstraction  born  of  monks  and  the  mists  of 
the  North.  A  woman  I  know,  but  what  on  earth  is 
Woman  ?  She  has  done  her  best  to  spoil  history,  poetry, 
novels,  essays,  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne  and  Thoreau 
are  the  only  things  safe  from  her ;  that's  why  I  love 
them. 


I  have  been  reading  Amiel  all  day,  out  in  the  garden, 
where  every  blade  of  grass  shone  like  a  little  sword,  and 
in  the  chalk  hollows  and  on  the  cliff  over  the  sea.  It 
would  be  better  for  me  if  I  did  not  understand  him  so 
well  perhaps.  He  ought  to  have  been  a  woman  and 
married  Thoreau.  Thoreau  is  the  masculine  half  of  him, 
and  he  would  have  just  had  courage  enough  to  say  yes  to 
the  right  person,  though  he  never  proposed  to  the  right 
person   himself  for  fear    she  should  happen   to   be  the 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    235 

wrong.  Perhaps  it  was  not  even  for  fear  of  that.  To 
have  asked  the  question,  'Is  it  worth  while?'  is  to  have 
answered  it  in  the  negative.  He  accuses  himself  of 
cowardice,  Tirmditc ;  the  word  comes  over  and  over  again. 
But  was  it  really  fear  ?  Was  it  really  anything  stronger 
than  indifference  to  all  life  except  that  of  his  own  intellect.'' 
I  don't  know.  '  Nothing  venture  nothing  have.'  Better 
he  had  married  recklessly  three  times,  like  Milton,  and 
generally  wrong.  As  a  critic,  '  il  a  toutes  les  inteUigence.s 
de  la  tctc  ct  dit  caiir.''  It  is  exquisite.  I  couldn't  help 
being  pleased  to  find  that  Mozart  twice  reminded  him  of 
Plato,  that  books  angered  and  soothed  him  as  if  they 
were  people,  that  his  will-lessness  depressed  him  more 
than  their  wilfulness  depresses  others. 

Amiel's  power  of  drowning  himself  in  the  existence  of 
another,  whether  that  other  be  God  or  a  daisy,  is  very 
wonderful.  He  seems  to  have  retained  mentally  some  of 
that  strange  power  of  transformation  that  a  child  experi- 
ences before  it  is  born.  He  identifies  himself  not  that 
he  may  love  better,  but  that  he  may  understand  more  ;  it 
is  a  very  unusual  kind  of  sympathy. 


I  read  some  of  Medea  ;  it  stiffens  one's  mind  to  do  a 
bit  of  Greek.  Classic  folk  despise  Euripides,  but  after  all 
he  was  Milton's  man.  Medea  is  thoroughly  fin  de  siecle ; 
says  she  would  rather  go  into  battle  three  times  than 
have  a  baby  once,  pitches  into  men  like  anything.  But 
there's  too  much  Whitechapel  about  her.  How  are  you 
to  be  seriously  interested  in  a  woman  who  has  murdered 
her  mother  and  boiled  her  father-in-law  before  the  play 
begins  ?  So  different  from  the  gentle  Pha,'dra,  and  the 
wonderful  Antiiione  and  Helen. 


236   PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

Wc  have  got  about  fifty  books,  and  if  it  were  not  for  the 
extraordinary  duhiess  of  the  Popes,  I  should  be  perfectly 
happy.  Why  is  no  Pope  interesting  except  the  Papa  of 
Caesar  Borgia  ?  Nuns  are  charming,  monks  fascinating, 
even  an  Archbishop  may  please,  but  the  minute  a  man 
becomes  a  Pope  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  Bulls  and 
Councils  and  slanging  the  Emperor  of  the  period.  I 
take  a  personal  interest  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  nuns  of  the 
ninth  century,  because  if  I  had  happened  to  be  born  then 
instead  of  in  the  nineteenth,  I  should  have  had  to  enter 
a  convent  from  the  impossibility  of  getting  books  any- 
where else.  They  were  obliged  by  their  abbesses  to 
read  two  hours  a  day,  and  they  wore  fringes  (for  which 
the  bishops  had  them  up),  and  corresponded  with  St. 
Boniface,  or  any  other  saint  they  could  find,  in  bad 
Latin,  and  went  to  Rome  on  pilgrimage  whenever  they 
were  tired  of  one  another,  and  were  dreadfully  afraid  of 
meeting  Saracens  there.  Five  hundred  of  them  once 
danced  for  joy  on  the  grave  of  a  novice-mistress  whom 
they  hated,  till  the  earth  sank  in  half  a  foot,  and  the 
Abbess  condemned  them  to  fast  three  days  on  account  of 
the  hardness  of  tlieir  hearts.  My  opinion  is  that  un- 
married ladies  had  a  high  old  time  of  it  in  those  days. 


Nothing    has    such    deadly   power   to    corrupt  as   un- 
alloyed virtue. 


I  have  spent  the  whole  day  murdering  flowers.  Phil- 
anthropy is  like  your  sins,  it  finds  you  out.  There  was  I 
sitting  in  the  verandah  this  morning,  reading  of  Michelet, 
wishing  no  ill  to  any  one,  when  by  comes  nice,  good  Mrs. 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    237 

and  inquires  whether  I  wouldn't  like  to  go  and  help 

her  pick  cowslips  to  be  sent  up  to  the  flower-girls  in 
the  worst  street  of  London,  Having  broken  my  back 
for  two  hours  over  this  performance  (in  the  course  of 
which  I  made  many  reflections  on  the  nature  of  cowslips 
and  of  nice,  good  women),  I  calculated  that  I  must  have 
earned  about  3d.  towards  the  hat  or  flannel-petticoat  of 
Spitalfields.  I  should  have  had  quite  two  shillings  worth 
of  pleasure  out  of  Michelet.  From  a  money  point  of 
view  it  doesn't  pay.  However  I  dklommagtd  myself  by 
gathering  an  enormous  bunch  of  flowers  afterwards  for 
home-consumption. 


Yesterday  F.  and  I  were  gathering  primroses.  One  of 
the  dearest  things  about  Nature  to  me  is  her  secrecy. 
There  were  all  those  thousands  of  yellow  stars,  and  yet  if 
we  had  waited  a  year  she  would  no  more  have  let  us  see 
the  exact  moment  at  which  every  bud  changed  to  a 
flower  than  she  would  have  told  us  the  very  point  at 
which  Celia  left  off  being  a  baby  and  grew  into  a  child. 


How  I  do  love  the  tossing  and  kissing  and  crushing  of 
the  waves.  Ifs  like  the  encounter  of  strong-hearted 
friends,  half  play,  half  warfare,  and  half  surrender ;  O 
dear !  I  forgot  there  couldn't  be  three  halves  to  a  thing. 


The  result  of  leaving  children  to  the  guidance  of 
nature  is  so  very  dreadful ;  and  the  men  and  women 
who  say  they  live  according  to  nature  are  even  more 
intolerable   than    the    children.      If   I    follow   nature,   I 


238   PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

scream  when  I  have  a  tooth  out,  I  eat  eleven  strawberries 
when  there  are  twelve  on  the  table,  I  come  down  late 
to  breakfast,  there's  no  end  to  the  inconvenient  things 
that  I  do.  Is  it  dreadfully  Philistine  to  say  these 
things  ?  I  am  not — as  you  see — in  love  with  nature — 
no  doubt  because  I  do  live  in  accordance  with  nature 
myself.     But  I  don't  think  the  result  charming. 


If  it  turns  out  that  the  world  is  the  Church,  and 
the  Church  is  the  world,  why,  the  Sinners  must  just 
forgive  the  Saints  and  the  Saints  must  learn  to  stand 
being  forgiven. 


(From  Treworlas) 
I  hardly  ever  write — -and  never  read.     After  all,  tlie 
earth  was  made  before  books. 


On  Wednesday  I  heard  Prof.  Flinders  Petrie  on  The 
Development  of  Research  in  Egypt.  A  thousand  years 
were  as  a  day,  and  one  day  as  a  thousand  years.  It  was 
wonderful  to  hear  him  tossing  time  about  like  a  magician. 
There  on  the  table  stood  a  little  chipped  vase  that  was 
6000  years  old.  And  he  went  back  to  9000  b.c.  It 
appears  that  we  have  not  improved  in  weaving  since 
5000.  He  spent  last  winter  high  up  on  Sinai,  with  nine- 
teen other  diggers,  five  days  from  their  food  supply,  in 
the  freezing  cold,  unearthing  an  Egyptian  temple.  The 
Egyptians  used  to  go  there  to  look  for  turquoise,  and 
there  they  set  up  numbers  of  '  pillars,'  like  the  one  that 
Jacob  set  up  at  Bethel  when  he  had  not  known  '  that 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    239 

there  was  a  God  in  this  place,"*  and  there  the  Inspectors 
of  the  works  prayed  for  oracular  dreams  to  guide  them 
to  a  vein  of  turquoise.  A  very  superior  way  of  mining 
to  ours  in  South  Africa,  I  think.  I  don't  wonder  that 
they  found  the  treasures  of  the  earth — that  they  made 
lovely  use  of  them  when  found.  They  leant  on  the 
Eternal,  and  there  is  something  of  eternity  visible  in 
their  work.  I  don't  believe  people  will  find  and  rejoice 
in  diamonds  from  the  De  Beers  mine  thousands  of  years 
hence.  The  earth  will  take  her  own  again — and  quite 
right  too.     Only  that  which  is  earth  returns  to  the  earth. 


How  is  it  that  people  with  beautiful  minds  can  always 
write  such  lovely  things  about  dull,  leaden,  wildly  foolish 
sleep,  that  robs  us  of  nearly  half  our  little  life,  and 
makes  such  fools  of  us  that  we  are  ashamed  to  think  of 
what  it  did,  when  we  are  awake  ?  (This  is  a  little  bit 
of  private,  personal  spite,  because  I  never  have  any  good 
dreams.)  I  don't  like  sleep.  I'm  not  the  friend  of 
sleep.  I  've  slept  too  much.  I  passionately  admire  old 
Sir  Thomas  Browne — 

O  come  that  day  when  I  shall  never 
Sleep  again,  but  wake  for  ever. 

Though  it  is  an  imagination  beyond  imagination  to 
conceive — and  terrible  as  '  No  night  there' — of  which,  it 
is,  I  suppose,  a  rendering.  As  for  its  being  the  cure  of 
mortal  woes,  they  're  always  twice  as  bad  when  one  wakes 
up — it's  mere  opium.  Beddoes  was  right,  in  his  beauti- 
ful little  Dirge,  when  he  wrote  first — 

If  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart 
Of  love  and  all  its  smart. 
Then  sleep,  dear,  sleep  ! 


240    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

and  then — 

But  wilt  thou  cure  thine  heart 
Of  love  and  all  its  smart, 
Then  die,  dear,  die  ! 

I  wrote  out  lately  four  Sonnets  on  Sleep,  four  great  big 
Sonnets,  by  Griffin,  Daniel,  Sidney,  Drummond,  respec- 
tively. 

The  first  verse  of  this  [a  poem  sent  her]  reminds  me 
sweetly  of  three  of  Sidney's  lines — 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  li^ht, 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 

The  rosy  garland  a\  ould  be  rather  in  the  way  ?  I  'm 
glad  you  haven't  got  that.  Yours  is  a  most  beautiful 
little  dear  poem,  I  think.  I  delight  in  it  all  except  verse 
two,  which  is  not  equal  to  the  rest.  Somehow  I  don't 
care  about  the  sky  'teeming'  with  fancies,  and  would 
any  one  want  a  gnome  in  a  garden  ?  The  flowers 
wouldn't ! 


When  I  had  finished  it  [Stevenson  on  '  The  South 
Seas,']  I  seemed  to  hear  Mr.  Cory  say  again,  '  Poor 
fellow  !  Knows  no  Latin  and  Greek  !  How  I  should 
like  to  teach  him!'  Never  in  any  other  book  of  his 
did  the  thought  come  across  me.  I  never  minded 
whether  he  knew  Latin  and  Greek  or  not.  But  now 
I  feel  dimly,  somehow  or  otlier,  that  if  he  had  been  a 
classic,  he  Avould  not  have  lost  the  fine  edge  of  his 
refinement  out  there — he  would  not  have  allowed  him- 
self one  or  two  coarse  and  bloodthirsty  touches  which  I 
think   Mr.   Cory  would   not  have  liked.     It  is  curious, 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    241 

how  often  I  find  myself  referring  and  deferring  to  what 
I  faney  his  judgment  would  have  been  about  some  book. 
And  how  unsafe  to  speculate!  For  one  could  never 
tell.  Besides  the  terrific  knowledge,  he  had  that 
vein  of  caprice  which  seems  to  me  sometimes  to  mark 
out  all  the  really  great  critics — men  who  were  poets 
before  they  turned  to  criticism — men  like  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,    Charles    Lamb,    Mat    Arnold,    FitzGerald    and 


I  am  delighted  with  your  beautiful  Yeats  letter.     Yes, 
what  an  elf  of  thouo-ht  he  is  ! 


Are  you  fond  of  Motley.?  IVe  been  besieging 
Antwerp  over  again.  I  shall  never  get  over  it,  that 
that  rocket  did  not  go  up  to  tell  the  fleet  at  Lille  that 
the  fire-ship  Hope  had  broken  Parma^s  bridge.  How 
magnificent,  the  dead  commander  leading  the  Old 
Spa.nish  Legion  to  victory  on  the  narrow  dyke  between 
the  two  seas  !  '  In  that  superstitious  age ' — says  Motley 
— but  it  made  me  think  of  Mr.  Cory.  '  I  don't  know 
what  he  means,''  he  said  once,  quoting  a  great  passage 
of  Ruskin  from  Modern  Painters  about  the  ghostly 
Brethren  leading  the  Roman  Soldiers.  He  said  it  as  if 
he  were  pleased  not  to  know. 

Ah,  but  how  often  the  great  ghosts  of  their  dead  have 
cheered  the  Roman  Catholics  on  to  win  !  There  does  not 
seem  to  be  that  power  of  resurrection  in  Protestantism, 
though  we  have  our  fire-ships  of  Hope.  And  the  dead 
prevail,  against  fire  even. 


242   PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

Shakespeare  has  no  conscience  about  the  people  his 
second  heroines  marry.  That  Oliver  and  Celia  match 
was  a  bad  business.     But  nothing  to  Claudio  and  Hero. 


Now  you  will  think  me  a  worldling — I  am — but  you 
made  me  feel  sorry  a  little  for  the  '  large  and  fashionable 
congregation.''  There  are  sad  hearts  under  fashionable 
clothes  as  well  as  under  rags.  There  were  Kings  in  the 
Bible  whose  prayers  were  heard,  as  well  as  beggars  .'* 
Why  may  we  not 

Go  tog'ether  to  the  Kirk 
In  a  goodly  company  ? 

There  is  something  in  the  mere  fact  of  numbers  when 
they  sing — when  they  are  silent — that  makes  the  Hymn 
or  the  prayer  different  from  that  at  home — more  inspirit- 
ing to  some  people  and  less  of  an  effort.  And  though 
Our  Lord  said  so  much  about  private  prayer  He  went 
often  to  the  pubHc  service  in  the  Temple  or  the 
Synagogue,  and  did  He  not  mean  us  to  learn  from  His 
life  as  well  as  from  His  words  ?  I  do  not  care  for 
crowded  services — nor  for  frequent  services  of  any  kind 
— but  there  was  a  time  when  I  did,  and  I  understand 
the  feelings  of  tliose  who  do,  and  who  like  to  worship 
among  people  of  like  kind  with  themselves  rather  than 
among  the  bewildering  poor  who  are  different  in  cleanli- 
ness and  different  in  taste — or  in  a  loneliness  the 
heights  and  depths  of  which '  they  cannot  always 
measure. 


.  .   .  We   did  homage  to   Velasquez  together   at   the 
Guildhall.     What  an  elfin  thing  the  influence  of  genius 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES   243 

is  !  Half  the  little  girls  in  London  have  turned  into 
little  Spanish  Infantas,  because  their  mammas  think  it 
can  he  done  with  a  bow  on  the  side  of  the  head. 


I  know  so  little  about  Pandora.  She  had  a  box  with 
a  lot  of  troubles  in  it,  and  Hope  at  the  bottom,  hadn't 
she  ?  They  didn't  look  upon  Hope  in  the  Pauline  way  ? 
as  a  virtue?     It  certainly  seems  more  like  a  gift. 


Christian  artists  have  blinded  Justice,  but  they  never 
blinded  Hope,  which  makes  one  think  they  believed  in 
the  luunan  race  more  than  /Eschylus  did. 


The  difficulty  in  teaching  about  death  is,  it  seems  to 
me,  that  you  must  make  the  teaching  transcendental, 
and  yet,  if  the  child  is  fully  inspired  with  the  thought 
that  it  is  '  The  entrance  to  a  better  life,'' — and  a  child 
believes  that  so  very  easily  and  readily — the  first  time 
it  comes  across  death  at  close  quarters,  it  will  be  so 
utterly  unprepared  for  the  horror  of  it — for  the  shock 
of  the  inconsistency  of  passionate  grief — funerals — mourn- 
ing— that  it  will  run  the  risk  of  losing  belief  altogether. 
I  know  it  was  so  with  me. 


I've  just  been  to  see  a  most  exciting  picture  by  Piero 
di  Cosimo  (the  Renaissance  painter  in  Romola,  you 
know — there  are  only  about  15  of  his  w'orks  extant). 
It's  the  battle  of  the  Centaurs  and  the  Lapitha*  out 
of   Ovid,   and   they   say   every  detail   of  the    passage  is 


244    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

rendered.  I  never  knew  there  were  lady  Centaurs.  I 
was  deeply  touched  by  one  lovely  dear,  half  of  her  a 
white  horse  and  half  of  her  a  beautiful  gold-haired  lady 
with  lilies,  mourning  over  a  Renaissance  gentleman 
Centaur  who  has  had  the  good  taste  to  die  in  her 
arms.  She  has  a  lovely  ear  like  a  shell,  just  fringed 
with  fur,  as  if  she  didn't  quite  know  whether  it  were 
human  or  not. 

How  much  more  agreeable  sporting  ladies  would  be 
if  they  were  only  half  a  horse  in  body  as  well  as  in 
mind !  The  rollicking  fun  of  part  of  the  picture  is 
most  remarkable — and  the  terrific  enjoyment  of  the 
struggle.  One  Centaur  has  pulled  up  an  altar  to  throw, 
and  the  incense  is  still  smoking  on  it.  Another  is 
tugging  at  the  trees  to  uproot  them.  All  this  gorgeous 
stuff  to  be  seen  for  nothing.  You  just  walk  in,  and 
intelligent  men  hum  round  you  and  give  you  printed 
descriptions.  How  cheap  the  best  things  are  ! 
'Tis  ouly  Heaven  that  is  given  away. 


'IVe  just  been  thinking  how  wonderfully  Milton — 
the  insatiable  knower — recommends  Temperance  in  know- 
ledge even,  in  that  passage  about  the  Trees  of  Life  and 
of  Knowledge  in  Bk.  iv. — 

Knowledge  of  good,  bought  dear  by  knowing  ill. 
I    shouldn't    have    known     beforehand    that    he    would 
think  it  was  '  bought  dear.'     'Tis^  a  hard  question,  even 
now. 


After  all, '  We're  all  going  to  Heaven,  and  Vandyck's 
of  the   company.'      We   mitst  remember  that,  if  we're 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    245 

Christians,  we  of  all  people  must  have  least  to  do  with 
despair. 


{After  seeing  Hamlet  at  Stratford).  Benson's  delivery 
of  the  great  speeches  was  admirable.  At  the  end  he 
strugo-les  up  to  the  throne  (i  la  Forbes  Robertson  and 
then  falls  into  Hjratio's  arms  and  dies  there,  falling 
forward.  I  don't  care  for  this ;  I  suppose  somebody 
will  elect  to  die  standing  on  his  head  next.  And  I  don't 
care  for  the  business  of  tangling  the  King  in  a  fishing-net 
before  he  stabs  him.  No.  Nobody  fights  like  Sarah, 
and  nobody  dies  like  Forbes.  When  I'm  in  Heaven,  I 
shall  order  a  week  of  performances  of  Hamlet  thus : 
J/o«.,  Benson;  JW*.,  Forbes;  Wed.  and  T/«/r.,  Irving; 
Fr'i.  and  Sat.,  Sarah.  Ellen  Terry  to  be  Ophelia  always. 
^Vill  you  come  too  .'' 


Falmouth. 
I  thought  of  you  last  night  as  I  sate  in  the  dusk  on 
our  tiny  lawn,  and  watched  the  stars  twinkle  out  and 
the  lights  of  the  ships.  This  is  a  fairy  place.  You  see 
the  boats  gliding  about  over  the  blue  water  like  moths  and 
great  white  butterflies,  and  never  a  man  do  you  see. 
You  see  the  lamps  at  night  and  never  a  man  to  light 
them.  One  poor  old  steamer  lies  just  opposite  our 
windows,  and  has  lain  there  for  ten  months,  forlornly 
waiting  for  a  cargo  that  doesn't  come,  with  only  two 
men,  the  captain  and  the  bo'sun.  .  .  .  They  have  the 
gift  of  fernseed,  they  walk  invisible,  we  have  not  seen 
them  once.     Round  the  corner  lies  Falmouth. 


246   PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

TiTi  See. 
What  an  odd  thing  is  the  '  lust  of  the  eyes.'  Some- 
times, if  everything  is  ugly,  I  can't  feel  gay  in  the  least, 
however  comfortable  it  is ;  and  here,  where  I  suj)pose  the 
cold  and  the  damp  really  are  uncomfortable,  I  can't 
succeed  in  minding  them  at  all,  because  there's  a  hill 
that  appears  and  vanishes  at  the  end  of  the  lake,  and 
because  of  the  floating  spectres  of  mist  shifting  and 
drifting  among  the  fir-trees,  and  because  of  the  changing 
paths  down  hither  and  thither  over  the  landscape.  It  is 
all  very  well  to  read  when  the  others  are  there,  but  if 
I  am  alone  for  five  minutes  even,  I  can  hardly  tear 
myself  from  the  window.  It  is  never  the  same,  and  it  is 
always  beautiful. 


Dorset. 
I  hardly  ever  touch  a  book  or  a  pen.  The  sky  is 
greater  reading  than  the  Bible,  the  sea  than  Shakespeare. 
The  words  have  not  been  born  tliat  could  describe  what 
I  feel.  '  I  was  dumb  and  opened  not  my  mouth,  for  it 
was  thy  doing.'  Funny,  what  waste  of  time  all  doing 
seems  by  the  side  of  being !  And  yet  I  know  that  the 
least  little  thing  done  is  better  than  all  this  fine  dream- 
ing. .  .  .  Words  cannot  express  my  aversion  from  every 
form  of  industry. 


Bamborough. 

All  day  we  sat  in  the  golden   ragwort,  the  swallows 

flying  close  to   us,  watching  the  gulls,    the    terns,   the 

dunlins  and  the  hovering  hawks.     I  can't  tell  you  how 

beautiful   it  was.      When  the   moon   rose  we   sat   and 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    247 

watched    her    in    the   doorway.      What    is    there    that 
ihanns  one  so  in  the  mere  rising  and  falHng  of  tides  ? 


A  marvellous  thing  it  is  to  any  one  standing  for  the 
first  time  in  the  gold  and  crimson  spangled  darkness  on 
that  part  of  the  Tower  Rridge  that  behaves  like  other 
bridges,  to  watch  the  signal  spots  of  red  at  the  mast  of 
some  tall  ship,  to  mark  a  slender  rope  stretched,  to  hear 
a  bell  rung,  slowly,  and  in  an  instant  to  see  the  solid 
centre  of  the  bridge  heave  up,  unresting  and  unhasting, 
so  gradually  that  not  a  tiny  pebble  on  it  moves,  so 
unceasingly  that  the  twined  shadows  of  the  railings  fall 
every  second  into  new  lacework — to  see  it  fill  the  arch 
like  the  vast  and  mystical  curtain  that  hid  the  veiled 
image  in  the  temple — to  see  it  once  more  drop  again,  in 
the  same  soft  and  stately  manner,  without  a  sound,  to 
meet  its  other  half. 


Hknfield,  Sussex. 
I  think  the  Sleeping  Beauty  and  Co.  must  have  fallen 
asleep  in  this  place  and  infected  the  neighbourhood.  I 
fall  asleep  all  day  long.  And  I  dream  a  horrid  dream 
about  a  flying  fish  that  I  've  got  to  catch,  all  covered 
with  brown  fur,  and  the  minute  I  've  caught  it,  it  flies 
away  down  Portland  Road.  Everything  is  very  beautiful 
— sleepily  beautiful,  not  dreamily.  The  robins  are  dis- 
tracting; they  hop  from  bough  to  bough  among  the 
apple-trees,  and  answer  each  other  singing — 

Their  words  are  words. 

Our  words, 
Ouly  so  much  more  sweet. 


248    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

There's  a  lonely  church  too,  with  processions  of  yews 
walking  about  and  about  it,  and  yellow  roses  twined 
among  them ;  and  as  you  go  through,  a  rose  will  kiss 
your  cheek  and  leave  a  drop  of  dew  there. 


Charmouth,  Dorset. 
This  is  such  a  lovely  place,  and  every  moment  stolen 
from  sea  and  sky  seems  to  be  wasted.  I  lie  out  on  the 
cHfF,  the  great  blue  over,  the  great  blue  under,  and 
watch  a  wee  butterfly  hang  like  a  flower  on  a  bit  of  dry 
grass.  And  then  the  sun  sets  behind  the  hills  in  a  pale 
gold  and  red  sky,  and  the  sea  catches  the  red  and  gold, 
and  the  soft  headlands  lie  ghostly  grey  between.  .  .  , 
Perhaps  nothing  thrills  us  that  is  not  or  has  not  been  in 
some  way  human !  .  .  .  The  least  little  scrap  of  ruin 
would  make  it  different.  A  light  in  a  cottage  window 
—  and  there  you  are  !  But  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  want 
anything  different  just  now  and  here.  I  love  to  drown 
— to  forget  all  about  human  beings — not  to  know  I  'm 
a  woman.  .  .  .  The  other  want  comes  back  of  course ; 
but  while  it 's  away — and  when  the  sun  shines — what  an 
adorable  place  the  world  is  ! 


We  have  been  having  a  discussion  about  '  old  ancient ' 
things.  I  never  can  feel  the  age  of  mountains ;  it  does 
not  impress  me  in  the  least,  and  I  don't  think  age, 
unconnected  with  anything  human,  is  impressive.  After 
all,  the  earth  that  makes  the  road  in  12  Cromwell  Place 
is  just  as  old  as  they  are,  in  reality.  Of  course  the 
oldest  building  is  an  infant  in  comparison  with  the 
youngest  and  most  babyish  mountain,  but  then  it  is  old 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    249 

collectively  with  the  age  of  all  the  hands  that  have 
touched  it,  the  ages  that  have  seen  it,  the  hearts  that 
have  beat  in  it.  A  mountain  will  be  as  young  as  ever 
at  the  last  day.  There  's  no  pathos  of  age  except  where 
it  touches  humanity. 


Snow  mountains  have  never  fascinated  me.  Switzer- 
land seems  to  me  to  have  got  no  heart.  I  just  admire 
it,  but  I  don't  love  it  in  the  least.  I  would  fifty  times 
rather  be  in  the  Black  Forest,  or  among  the  soft  blue 
hills  of  Savoy. 


Scenery  is  all  very  well  .  .  .  but  I  'm  a  stranger 
among  mountains.  I  am  at  home  in  the  flat,  skiey  land. 
More  to  me  are  the  lonely  gracious  trees  that  can  grow 
as  they  like,  than  the  trees  that  have  to  grow  as  the 
mountains  like.  And  I  hate  a  wall  that  says  '  You 
can't  see  the  sun  yet,"*  and  '  Now  you  shan't  see  the  sim 
anv  more.' 


(Fkom  the  Lake  Country.) 
The  hills  about  the  place  are  alive.  Sometimes 
they're  not  hills  at  all,  but  mist  that  has  taken  a 
fancy  to  look  like  that,  sometimes  they  lie  asleep,  some- 
times they  die  and  vanish,  sometimes  they  spring 
and  lift  themselves,  sometimes  they  are  low  and  little, 
sometimes  they  turn  giants,  sometimes  they  are  pink 
and  gold,  like  the  Holy  Land.  They  only  obey  one 
rule  so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  and  that  is,  ne\  er  to  be 
two  minutes  the  same.  ...  I  sit  and  think  of  nothing. 


250    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

I  feel  as  if  my  whole  body  were  my  eyes,  as  if  I  never 
wanted  it  to  be  anything  else.  .  .  .  Wordsworthian 
animals  abound.  All  the  cows  and  sheep  look  as  if  they 
knew  the  Ode  to  hniiiortal'ittj  by  heart.  I  'm  sure  they 
are  all  inmiortal.  Sometimes  they  look  as  if  they  were 
going  to  recite  Betty  Foij^  but  then  I  run  away. 

I  can't  tell  you  what  the  sunsets  are  here.  l*ink 
clouds  and  silver  moon — gold  clouds  and  a  gold  moon — 
grey  clouds  and  no  moon — it  does  not  matter  in  the 
least.  The  quiet,  solemn  feeling  of  gladness  sweeps  over 
one  like  a  great  wave.  It  buries  all  the  restlessness,  all 
the  anxiousness,  all  the  vanity.  And  at  night  there  is 
the  wide  sky— sometimes  a  few  stars  that  are  friends, 
sometimes  hosts  upon  hosts  of  lonely  strangers  with 
them. 

(Ok  Knakksboro'.) 
It  was  an  elfin  town  last  night,  a  red  round  ball  of 
lightless  sun  sinking   away  behind  the  slender,  delicate 
trees.      There,  and  there  only,  the    hours    pass.      Here 
[Harrogate]  they  stand  still. 


Light  has  such  different  ways  with  it ;  in  some  places 
it  lies,  in  some  it  falls,  in  some  it  strikes.  .  .  . 


I\e  just  been  reading  Tennyson's  Love  and  Duty  over 
again.  What  a  marvellous  thing  it  is !  No  event,  no 
character,  nothing  on  earth  to  explain  ;  only  those  two 
tremendous  words  fighting  it  out  together  in  perfect 
silence.     And  what  a  deep,  fine  feeling,  to  end  it  with 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES  251 

dawn,  not  with  the  night  and  stars,  as  a  meaner  poet 
would  ahnost  certainly  have  ended. 


As  to  reason  and  feeling,  they  are  always  pulling  me 
different  ways,  and  I  really  don't  know  what  to  make  of 
them.  Do  you  think  they  are  the  man  and  woman 
faculties  in  us  P  Feeling  seems  to  me  the  highest,  but 
many  people  would  say  just  the  reverse.  Feeling  goes 
higher  and  deeper,  is  at  the  same  time  more  instinctive 
and  animal,  and  more  divine,  and  takes  a  short  cut 
where  reason  goes  a  very  long  way  round ;  but  reason 
is  stronger,  more  reliable  because  it's  more  permanent, 
and  not  so  apt  to  make  terrific  mistakes.  If  it  comes  to 
a  fight  between  the  two  I  follow  the  former  nine  times 
out  of  ten  .   .  .  And  nine  times  out  of  ten  I  go  wrone. 


The  law  of  love,  which  is  freedom  ;  if  we  could  only  be 
ruled  by  that !  But  alas,  too  often,  even  where  people 
love,  and  love  intensely,  they  won't  obey  love's  perfect 
law !  Still  I  do  think  there  is  a  strong  tendency  now 
to  see  that  that  is  the  only  thing  that  can  bring  a  man 
'  peace  at  the  end.'  The  very  abhorrence  of  the  word 
'  Dutv,'  which  some  people  affect,  shows  it. 


No  plav  in  the  world  comes  near  Hdynlct,  of  course ; 
nothing  ever  could.  I  'm  tempted  to  think  I  love  the 
sonnets  more  than  all  the  plays,  Hamlet  included.  But 
this  is  Hat  heresy — and  only  to  be  said  in  a  whisper. 


I've  been  re-reading  The  Tempcsty  which  reminded  me 


252  PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

of  some  words  by  Bell  Scott  (tlie  only  words  I  ever  saw 
in  a  book  that  recalled  my  own  childhood  to  me)  to  the 
effect  that  childhood  is  not  an  earthly  Paradise,  but  an 
enchanted  island,  full  of  strange  noises  and  haunted  by  a 
Caliban. 


There  are  some  words  that  are  like  a  flight  of  steps 
that  end  in  mid-air,  and  there  is  nothing  but  the  sky 
above  them.  Poetry  is,  by  its  very  derivation,  making, 
not  feeling.  But  the  odd  thing  is,  I  think,  that  what 
is  most  carefully  made  often  sounds  as  if  it  had  been 
felt  straight  off,  whereas  what  has  been  felt  carelessly 
sounds  as  if  it  were  made. 


IVe  been  reading  Rossetti's  letters,  and  Matthew 
Arnold's.  There's  just  this  difference  between  them, 
that  Rossetti  was  a  poet,  and  Matthew  Arnold  was  a  man 
who  wrote  poetry.  Qua  poetry,  it  does  not  matter  in  the 
least,  but  qua  letters,  Rossetti  beats  Matthew  Arnold  into 
a  cocked  hat.  It's  funny  to  find  the  dividing  line  so 
marked  in  their  prose.  But  the  Vailima  Letters  beat 
them  both,  and  most  others  into  the  bargain.  Stevenson 
was  a  poet  who  couldn't  write  poetry,  but  could  and  did 
live  it. 


The  Venetian  pictures  at  the  New  Gallery  are  dis- 
tracting. ...  It's  just  like  '  A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's.' 

'  Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair  too !  What 's 
become  of  all  the  gold  ?'  For  they  are  dead,  dead,  dead, 
as  dead  as  the  dodo.     Take  off  their  armour  and  their 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES  253 

beloved  little  Quickly  caps,  and  the  Generals,  and  the 
Admirals  and  the  Doges  would  translate  into  nineteenth 
century  English  quite  easily;  but  we  have  lost  those 
ladies  for  evermore.  We  never  could  be  so  broad  as  that, 
however  hard  we  tried,  nor  so  brown-eyed  and  red-  and 
golden-haired.  They  couldn''t  be  revived,  not  if  we 
wore  their  clothes  at  twenty  masquerades.  They  have  no 
souls  whatever  to  speak  of,  but  oh !  you  never  saw  such 
fascinating  coins !  There  are  three  that  are  not  coins, 
by  the  way — a  perfect  Magdalen  carrying  a  chalice,  that 
used  to  be  called  '  St.  Barbara,'  and  is  St.  Barbara  if 
she's  St.  anything — and  a  lovely  Lotto,  whose  soft  grey 
eyes  are  as  refreshing  as  dew  in  the  golden  hazel  and 
amber  gleaming  of  all  the  rest — and  a  tall,  mysterious, 
bushy-locked  Lady  Professor  of  Bologna,  with  her 
hand  resting  on  a  skull.  She's  thinking  unutterable 
things  you  long  to  know.  Some  people  think  she  must 
be  a  man,  because  she's  so  tall;  but  she  has  little  soft 
white  hands,  and  the  way  she  stands  is  a  woman's  way, 
not  a  man's.  It  is  the  strangest,  most  dream-like  feeling, 
to  be  in  the  midst  of  these  silent  and  secret  lives,  these 
faces  that  are  so  many  sealed  books.  There  is  a  much 
larger  proportion  of  portraits  than  usual,  so  that  it  has 
the  effect  of  a  little  world,  complete  in  itself,  not  in- 
terrupted by  too  many  excursions  into  the  other.  You 
have  to  say  to  yourself  Poiw,  nan  dormo,  like  the 
marble  cupid,  with  bandaged  eyes,  in  the  Hall.  The 
fountain  bubbles  away,  surrounded  by  a  well  of  red 
marble,  covered  with  angels  and  flowers,  and  black 
Othello  pages  stand  round,  and  the  very  lanterns  that 
lit  the  Doge's  barge  when  he  went  to  marry  the  Adriatic 
hau"-  over  it. 


254  PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

...  Is  it  not  Tintoretto  who  makes  the  Tempter  a 
young  and  beautiful  man  ?  I  always  have  wanted  to  see 
that  picture  at  Venice.  In  Tissot's  he  was  an  old  and 
hideous  brown  man,  holding  up  two  stones  whicli  had  a 
ghastly  look  of  skulls  about  them.  The  Temptation  on 
the  roof  of  the  Temple  was  very  fine — the  Evil  One 
a  kind  of  spider\s  web  of  shadow  behind,  everywhere — 
nowhere — at  once.  (Millais'  Evil  One  sowing  tares  is 
the  finest  I  ever  saw,  I  think,  for  concentrated  rage,  envy, 
baseness,  love  of  evil  for  evil.)  The  more  one  thinks  of  it, 
the  more  impossible  it  seems  to  depict  such  a  spirit  con- 
flict at  all.  But  there  arc  things  that  Art  is  bound  to  try, 
and  never  to  accomplisli,  and  the  very  effort  after  them, 
given  that  it  is  the  highest  effort  of  the  imagination, 
interests  more  than  success.  Blake  might  have  succeeded 
in  a  moment  of  inspiration  that  most  people  would  have 
called  madness. 


Words  could  not  say  how  deeply  I  agree  that  they  are 
but  a  very  superficial  part  of  language.  Where  so  much 
is  played,  painted,  looked,  touched,  felt,  they  do  seem 
inadequate;  and  it  is  quite  true  that,  very  often,  you 
might  as  well  try  to  paint  a  piece  of  music  as  to  explain 
a  picture.  Still,  there  are  certain  limits,  it  seems  to  me, 
within  which  one  art  may  lawfully  help  another,  and  such 
a  description  as  Pater's,  for  instance,  of  Mona  Lisa, 
shows  literature  as  the  hand-maid  of  Leonardo.  The 
fine  arts  are  all  fine  ladies,  and  they  cannot  replace  each 
other  or  lay  down  the  law  for  each  other,  but  they  may 
excliange  courtesies  now  and  again  ? 

Socrates  was  my  earliest  love,  and,  all  things  considered, 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES  255 

I  think  he'll  be  my  latest.  There ""s  something  of  marble 
in  all  the  loftiest  Greek  characters.  But  it 's  the  cold- 
ness of  perfect  calm,  of  })erfect  dignity — not  the  icincss 
of  pride,  and  that  makes  all  the  difference. 


I  believe  the  Elizabethan  sense  of  love  and  friendship 
was  much  stronger  and  more  sensitive,  and  closer  to  the 
Victorian,  than  anvthin<>-  in  between. 


I  am  with  you.  I  am  with  you.  I  am  with  you 
about  Clarissa  Harhicc.  It  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
of  novels — thoroughly  unhealthy,  don't  you  tliink  ?  I 
found  it  was  a  favourite  with  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse, 
and  was  not  at  all  surprised.  It  seems  to  me  one  of  the 
few  books  that  are  like  an  experience,  you  are  not  cjuite 
the  same  after  you  have  read  it  as  you  were  before. 
Richard  Feverel  is  another.  Resurrection  is  another.  I 
suppose  there 's  nothing  to  compare  with  it  for  minute- 
ness except  The  Ring  and  the  Book ;  but  The  Ring  and 
the  Book  goes  in  for  '  goodness,''  and  not  for  '  virtue,' 
and  what  a  difference  that  makes  ! 


IIow  difficult  I  find  it  to  think  of  anything  just  now 
except  Port  Arthur !  It  is  odd  to  find  oneself  in  such 
ardent  sympathy  with  an  alien  race  against  whites.  .  .  . 
My  heart  goes  out  to  Togo.  For  one  thing,  I  am  so 
much  obliged  to  him  for  having  such  a  short  and  cheerful 
name.  Ito,  in  his  two-storied  country  house,  with  his 
black-silk-haired  wife  and  quiet  little  maid-servants,  and 
his  four  pet  storks  in  a  cage  by  the  sea,  I  adore.     A  bus 


256   PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

Alexiev  !     But  for  the  Tzar  I   have  infinite    pity — not 

understanded  of  H ,  who  thinks  him  a  weakling.     So 

he  is,  but  it  is  a  tragic  position  for  a  man  strong  enough 
to  desire  peace  with  all  his  heart,  not  strong  enough  to 
enforce  it,  obliged  to  be  the  figurehead  of  War,  and  go 
to  church  in  public,  and  pray  Heaven  for  what  he  knows 
is  accursed. 


The  Blake  pictures  in  Ryder  Street  are  amazing.  I 
think  he  and  Turner  are  the  greatest  things  we  have 
ever  had  in  the  way  of  paint.  But  as  a  rule  I  refrain 
from  mentioning  him — as  I  refrain  from  mentioning 
Gordon — because  I  am  always  told  he  was  mad.  Un 
fou  qui  meurt  7ioics  legue  un  Dicu.  I  remember  you 
had  a  passion  for  that  cry  of  Beranger's  too.  I  am  all 
on  the  side  of  madmen. 


Rodin's  Penscur,  the  big  statue,  is  rather  gigantic 
than  great  I  think — but  great  too.  He  thinks  with 
everything — his  great  groping  feet  think.  Only  the 
hands  hang  slack — which  is  true  to  thinking  nature. 
The  only  statue  that  he  reminds  one  of  is  Michael 
Angelo's  Penseroso — but  Rodin's  is  a  rough  man,  not 
born  to  think,  thinking  because  he  must,  and  not  because 
he  would. 


I  don"'t  know  whether  you  would  like  the  fat  new  Life 
of  Dumas  by  Davidson  ?  It  was  a  great  excitement  to 
me,  but  then  I'm  'a  Dumasser  of  the  first  class' — and 
I   rather  think  you're  only  of  the  second.     Have  you 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    257 

read  all  the  three  great  series,  as  well  as  the  ten  volumes 
of  Memoirs  right  through,  and  when  you  came  to  the 
end  did  you  wish  there  were  at  least  ten  volumes  more? 
That  is  the  test.  As  for  this  Life,  the  first  part  consists 
of  the  Memoirs  watered  down  and  spoilt,  but  the  rest, 
after  'thirty-two,  when  the  Memoirs  stop,  is  very  amus- 
ing. He  bought  a  vulture  and  towed  it  along  by 
a  rope,  and  called  it  Jugurtha.  Afterwards  it  took  to 
a  tub,  and  then  it  was  called  Diogenes.  When  I  get  to 
Heaven  (perhaps  i/"  might  be  a  more  suitable  beginning) 
Dumas  is  the  first  person  I  shall  ask  for.  And  I  shall 
ask  him  to  bring  all  his  five  hundred  children. 


I  am  still  struggling  with  Wahrheit  unci  Dichtung.     It 
reminds  one  of 

Crabbed  age  and  youth 
Cannot  live  together. 

He 's  always  saying,  Once  I  was  young,  and  I  did  this — 
and  then  he  gives  an  old  man's  reason  for  it.  The 
result  is  not  a  charming  portrait  like  that  which  Lewes 
gives,  but  a  horrid  composite  photograph  of  both  his 
ages.  Nothing  lives  except  Frederike  and  the  two 
daughters  of  the  dancing-master.  Odd  that  another 
man  could  write  Goethe's  life  so  much  better  than  he 
could  himself!  As  an  autobiographer  he  really  is  not 
in  it  with  Benvenuto  Cellini  or  Dumas  ph-e.  I  suppose 
poets  do  not  know  what  they  are  made  of,  they  're  made 
of  such  very  funny  stuff. 


We  have  just  come  back   from   a   lonely  little  grey 
church,  sunk  in  a  churchyard  blue  with  speedwell,  and 


258   PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

largely  attended  by  swallows.  Every  Sunday  afternoon 
the  Vicar  catechises  the  children  there,  like  a  Christian 
Socrates.  It's  the  most  charming- thing  to  hear.  What 
an  art  that  is,  to  ask  questions  in  such  a  way  that  the 
people  asked  positively  burn  with  the  desire  to  answer. 
Out  fly  the  little  hands  all  over  the  place,  and  they  can 
hardly  wait  their  turns,  they're  so  eager. 


I  went  to  see  Celia  at  her  gymnastics  yesterday.  But 
I  am  old-fashioned,  and  hate  the  hideous  actions  and 
the  ugly  language.  Why  am  I  forced  to  behold  twenty- 
six  lovely  children  squatting  like  little  toads,  and  tum- 
bling down  on  mats  and  swarming  up  ropes  like  cabin- 
boys  ?  Why  have  they  got  to  be  told  to  '  Face  the 
ribs  ! '  and  '  Forward  the  Trunk  ! '  The  trunk  —  how 
horrible !  I  hope  and  trust  you  don't  tell  Helen  to 
forward  her  trunk .?  It  made  me  long  for  Chassee, 
Croisee,  and  '  Set  to  your  partner ! '  and  the  elegant, 
'  Now  my  dears,  draw  in  the  Sash ! '  instead  of  that 
odious,  telegraphic  form  of  address,  as  if  every  word 
cost  a  half-penny. 


Yesterday,  H read  out  Yeats'  Death  of  CnchulUn, 

and  then  I  asked  for  Sohrah  and  Rustiim  to  compare. 
There  are  touches  in  Yeats  that  Mat  Arnold  can't 
beat,  but  the  father  and  son  ar^e  much  finer  in  Mat 
Arnold,  and  no  two  lines  of  the  Yeats  dwell  with  one  like 

Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men. 

And  falsehood,  while  I  lived,  was  far  from  mine. 

But  how  Mat  Arnold  does  crib  !     My  stars  and  garters  ! 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    259 

that    hyacinth    straiglit    bang   out  of   Virgil    is  a    bold 
one  ! 


I  am  acting  temporary  Gamp  to  a  dear  little  cousin  who 
is  down  here  all  alone  in  a  big  empty  house,  separated 
from  her  children — three  of  whom  have  Scarlatina  in 
barracks  nine  miles  off — because  she  is  expecting  another 
little  stranger  in  February.  We  live  like  two  men  in  a 
lighthouse,  avoided  by  every  one,  though  she  has  been 
here  by  herself  for  about  a  month.  She  sings  me  Songs 
of  the  North,  so  that  every  evening  about  nine-thirty  I 
become  a  furious  Jacobite,  and  meditate  profoundly  on 
the  advantage  it  gives  a  cause  if  you  can  call  it  '  Charlie,'' 
or  '  The  Grand  old  Man,**  or  '  Joe.""  I  wish  we  had  a 
Christian  name  for  Free  Trade.  '  Wha  wadna  die  for 
Cobden  ?'  doesn't  come  off  somehow.  And  Macedonia 
would  be  much  the  better  if  the  title  were  not  so  long. 
^Vhen  I  am  prepared  to  shed  the  last  drop  of  blood  in 
niv  body  for  the  Stuarts,  she  leaves  off,  and  we  fall  back 
upon  The  Slaves  of  the  Padishah.  Really  Jokai  is  an 
extraordinary  boon  in  the  midst  of  a  world  full  of  Gamp 
Gampant  and  Scarlatina.  If  there  were  a  prize  for  the 
maddest  novel  in  the  world,  I  should  back  this  one.  It 
begins  about  twenty  times  over,  and  every  beginning  goes 
one  better  than  the  last.  It  begins  with  the  Sultan  and 
a  gourd  full  of  ducats — it  begins  with  a  magnificent 
wedding  and  a  fine  triangular  duel — it  begins  with  a 
monastery  and  a  monk  who  can  hold  a  freebooter  up  in 
the  air  with  one  hand — it  begins  with  a  merchant  who 
has  maidens  to  sell,  and  firmly  declines  to  sell  the  most 
beautiful  maiden  of  all — it  begins  with — but  perhaps  you 
may  be  a  little  tired  of  hearing  what  it  begins  with.    And 


260   PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

it  never  ends  with  anything  at  all.  My  conviction  is, 
that  we  shall  still  be  at  the  beginning  of  it  when  Dooms- 
day comes  upon  us — and  quite  happy. 


(Of  April.) 
The  lark  sings  Vespers,  the  buds  promise  that  they  will 
flower  to-morrow.  The  promise  of  this  time  of  year 
is,  I  think,  even  more  beautiful — if  anything  can  be  more 
beautiful — than  the  tender,  brighter  promise  of  the  May 
— certainly  than  the  fulfilment  of  the  '  high  Midsummer 
pomps '  in  June.  I  love  the  tracery  of  the  bare  boughs — 
the  light  veils  of  green — the  song  of  the  more  joyous,  less 
passionate  birds  before  the  nightingale  has  come. 


(Of  the  Chapel  designed  by  Mrs.  Watts  at  Compton,  Surrey.) 
It  is  a  Cemetery  Chapel,  but  the  cemetery  is  a  small 
one,  there  are  very  few  graves  in  it  as  yet,  they  lie  on  the 
slope  of  a  hill,  yews  growing  along  the  pathway  that 
winds  up  through  the  trees,  and  at  the  top  sits  the 
Chapel  in  a  corner,  tall,  angular,  high-shouldered,  the 
grave  of  Watts  just  beyond,  the  lilies  withered,  three 
wreaths  of  bay,  of  palm,  of  golden  leaves.  It  is  built  of 
red  brick,  with  curious  terra-cotta  reliefs  of  strange 
spiritual  forms,  knots,  twined  and  twisted  signs.  Far 
away  there  are  soft  blue  hills,  and  almost  up  to  the  door 
comes  a  field  of  poppies,  after  your  own  heart.  The  door 
looks  Norman  in  the  distance — ifs  a  kind  of  second 
cousin  of  the  lovely  little  door  at  Bamborough — but  when 
you  come  close,  it  has,  I  think,  something  of  a  Moorish 
effect,  from  the  rich  linear  decoration.  There  's  a  little 
pierced   belfry  above  the  roof  in  which  the  bell  swings 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    ^Ol 

clear.  The  whole  effect  is  beautiful — wonderfully  living, 
I  think,  because  there  is  such  variety,  and  no  two 
ornaments  are  alike.  You  open  the  door  and  stand  in  a 
dark  circle  of  the  most  intense  colour.  (The  windows, 
lancets,  are  of  clear  j^lass,  very  high,  tall,  narrow.)  It 
seems  like  a  little  daughter  of  St.  Mark's.  Angels,  angels 
everywhere — angels  alternately  showing  their  faces  and 
their  backs — all  with  long,  shield-like  wings,  meeting  in 
a  point  under  their  feet,  all  their  hands  touching  and 
swinging  mystic  bells.  Round  about,  golden  letters  are 
traced — '  The  souls  of  the  righteous  are  in  the  hand  of 
God,"  and  '  Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech.''  I  looked  in 
vain  for  '  Night  unto  night."  Lovely  cherub  heads  adorn 
the  ceiling.  There  is  a  tall  candlestick  in  gesso  like  the 
angels,  with  '  The  candle  of  the  Lord '  and  four  little 
figures — a  figure  of  Body  carrying  a  shield  with  a  naked 
child  on  it.  Mind  with  a  lantern,  Soul  with  a  butterfly, 
Will  (the  priest)  with  a  wheel.  I  can't  describe  the  rich 
gloom,  the  glowing  enamel-lit  darkness,  the  peacock  flash 
here  and  there  round  a  cherub  head,  the  gleamy  mother- 
of-pearl.  There  is  a  golden  altar,  richly  wrought.  Above 
it  a  small  painting,  a  hooded,  heavily  draped  woman — 
Death,  I  suppose — brooding  over  a  globe  which  she  holds 
in  her  hand.  I  don't  know  what  I  wanted  (have  been 
trying  in  vain  to  think  ever  since),  but  it  was  not  that. 
It  gives  me  a  curious  feeling  of  vague  disappointment. 
What  did  I  want  ? 

There  are  no  words  at  all  over  the  beautiful  old- 
fashioned  lych-gate,  when  one  looks  up  instinctively, 
thinking  to  see  '  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life.' 

Close  to  the  chapel  outside  is  a  recumbent  cross  of  red 
stone,  in  the  same  style,  over  the  grave  of  a  woman,  at 
the  foot  Courage,  at  the  head  Amo,  on  the  arms  Amav'i 


262    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

and  Amabo,  round  it  some  Emersonian  George  Elioty 
inscription  about  hearts  that  beat  with  the  world's  great 
heart  not  being  able  to  die.  Curious,  how  one  resents 
the  modern  look  and  the  modern  sound  of  words  like  that 
in  such  a  place.  Have  they  got  it  in  them  to  grow  old  and 
full  of  silence  ?  Will  they,  two  or  three  hundred  years 
hence,  sound  as  Jeremy  Taylor  sounds  to  us  now  >  If 
there  had  been  only  the  three  words : 

I  have  loved. 

I  love. 

I  shall  love, 
that  cross  would  have  been  perfect. 


I  cannot  help  wanting  statues  in  a  Cathedral.  It 
is  our  fault  if  we  bother  about  who  they  are.  ...  Is 
not  one  conscious  of  a  want  ?  Surely  they  are  the  most 
beautiful  ornaments  of  all  ?  Mere  transitory  men  and 
women  are  too  slight.  You  want  stone  men  and  women 
to  humanise  the  stone — men  and  women  that  will  last,  and 
connect  all  the  fleeting  generations  at  their  feet.  You 
want  to  see  faces,  just  as  you  want  to  hear  music — no, 
not  just  as,  but  in  a  different  way !  Does  it  not  say 
something  for  statues  too,  that  the  Greeks,  the  great 
sculptors,  adorned  their  buildings  thus,  and  the  mediaeval 
people,  the  great  builders,  did  the  same  't 


Fve  got  so  much  fresh  air  into  me  that  I  can't 
write.  Do  you  know  the  feeling  ?  You  are  so  contented 
that  you  are  dumb;  everything  in  you  is  satisfied.  How 
different  it  is  from  the  rapture  of  happiness  of  people  who 
understand  each  other  I    So  incommunicable  too  !     You 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES   263 

can  never  make  any  one  else  understand  that  you  have 
been  in  heaven.  They  think  you  \-e  cold,  or  you  Ve  by 
yourself,  or  you  haven't  got  a  chair  to  sit  on,  or  some- 
thing. 

O  blessed  loneliness  ! 

O  lonely  blessedness  ! 

A  hermit-crab  am  I  by  nature,  and  shall  be,  to  the  end 
of  my  days.  And  yet  the  human  kind  is  a  very  good  kind, 
and  kindly  human  too.  The  little  church  here  is  sweet.  All 
day  it  stands  open,  and  you  can  run  in  when  you  like  and 
see  the  sun  shine  through  the  wings  of  Angels.  The 
power  to  do  that  is  more  to  me  than  many  services. 


I  sj)ent  a  happy  hour  with  a  friend  .  .  .  among  the 
old  water-colours  at  Agnew's.  Oh  !  how  I  love  those  old 
water-colours.  Did  anybody  ever  understand  English 
elms  and  English  rivers — slow,  sleepy  things— as  De  Wint 
did  ?  He  is  a  late  passion  with  me,  and  a  very  strong 
one.  In  the  days  of  my  youth  when  I  wanted  fairy-tales, 
I  had  no  eyes  for  him.  Golden  and  blue  and  grey  Turners 
there  are  too.  O  !  we  want  these  delights  of  London 
here.     We  can't  get  on  in  the  dark  without  them. 


.  .  .  Hippolijtus  was  exquisite.  Such  a  pathetic 
Phaedra — tall,  dark,  willowy,  throwing  her  white  veil 
over  her  head  in  a  way  that  showed  one  the  ancient 
queenliness  of  the  familiar  kitchen-grief  gesture  of  the 
apron.  How  charming  was  the  old  belief  that  all  wrong 
passion  was  the  work  of  the  gods,  so  that  you  could 
always  be  profoundly  sorry  for  every  one  and  never  felt 
shocked  or  angry.    The  love-charm  of  the  Middle  Ages  is 


264    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

less  majestic  somehow — more  of  a  toy,  and,  to  my  sur- 
prise, more  hard  to  believe  in.  I  felt  a  compassion  for 
Phaedra  that  I  do  not  feel  for  Iseult.  It  is  greater  to  be 
the  victim  of '  The  Cyprian '  than  to  be  the  victim  of  a 
stupid,  well  intentioned  other  woman.  Then  Hippolytus 
selbst  is  such  a  glorious  character.  And  the  scene 
between  father  and  son,  the  scene  for  that  kind  of  thing, 
not  even  faintly  approached  even  by  Sohrah  and  Ri(stum, 
though  I  am  very  fond  of  them  too. 

It  was  so  satisfying  to  be  calmed  dov/n  by  those  perfect 
choruses  after  every  harrowing  moment.  They  did  some- 
thing that  an  opera,  and  a  play  apart,  can  never  do. 


...  I  have  rapidly  come  to  believe  that  construction 
is  not  nearly  so  important  as  people  think.  It  is  to  a 
book  what  morality  is  to  a  person.  But  there  are 
delicious  books  without  any  construction  at  all,  and 
delicious  people  with  no  morality.  I  wrote  this  letter  on 
top  of  a  'bus  last  night  when  all  the  lamps  along  the 
Brompton  Road  were  flashing  gold  and  mauve  and 
crimson.     Hence,  you  perceive,  its  brilliant  incoherence. 


We  read  d'Annunzio,  —  Paolo  e  Francesca^  which  is 
desperately  hard,  and  I  peg  away  at  his  poems.  But  it 
is  rather  like  Heine  with  the  wit  left  out,  and  I  get  tired 
of  his  being  so  tired  of  everything.  Still  he  is  very 
beautiful  ^  But  Plato  would  never  have  let  him  go  near 
the  Republic. 

He  must  have  been  a  very  Dantesque  man  that  wrote 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    265 

Revelation.  I  should  think  Daute  made  for  him  first  of 
all  when  he  reached  Paradise.  I  am  beginning  to  wonder 
seriously  whether  it  is  worth  while  for  a  woman  of  nearly 
forty-two  to  read  anything  except  St.  John  and 
Shakespeare, 


IIow^  I  do  like  The  Descent  of  Man  \  .  .  .  The  way  in 
which  beasts,  birds  and  fishes,  all  make  love  to  each  other 
is  quite  delightful.  Fishes  appear  to  be  the  most 
romantic  wooers,  but  there  don't  seem  to  be  any  constant 
lovers,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  except  pigeons,  bull- 
finches and  wild  duck.  Tame  ducks  immediately  take 
several  brides. 


The  tortoise  has  all  C.'s  heart.  She  rubs  his  shell  with 
globe-polish.  He  seems  to  me  to  be  such  a  very  curious 
result  of  a  diet  of  flowers.  He  eats  nothing  excepting  an 
occasional  buttercup,  yet  there  he  is,  the  prosiest  animal 
you  can  conceive.  It  is  as  if  a  city  man  were  to  read 
nothing  but  Yeats  and  Austin  Dobson,and  yet  remain  a 
city-man. 


1  have  fallen  deeply  in  love  with  the  Eastern  weapons 
at  Hertford  House.  They  remind  one  of  the  armoury  iu 
that  wonderful  and  awful  poem  of  Browning's  '  A  For- 
giveness." They  flicker  in  their  shape  like  flames,  and  the 
gleaming  jewellery  sets  off  the  horror  of  them  with  the 
daintiest  beauty.  Even  the  weapons  of  the  Renaissance 
are  curiously  straight  and  dull  and  devious  after  these. 
The  cold  moony  glitter  of  steel  everywhere  fills  one  with 
dreams. 


266   PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

Some  time  ago  you  wrote  me  a  beautiful  letter  out  of 
a  garden.  I  waited  for  another  garden  to  answer  it.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  a  garden  ought  to  answer  what  a 
garden  had  said.  But  though  I  was  twice  in  an  ideal 
garden — once  when  it  was  beautiful  with  all  the  aid  that 
man  could  give,  a  place  that  had  been  an  old  tilting- 
ground  and  now  lies  bright  with  flowers  disposed  after  the 
Italian  fashion,  like  a  jewel  among  the  Northumbrian 
moors  —  once  in  a  place  where  it  was  beautiful  with 
scarcely  any  aid  from  man,  just  a  wild  tangle  of  flowers, 
trees,  bushes,  ivy,  clematis  and  an  old  wall  — though  it 
was  twice  the  place,  it  was  never  the  time,  for  the  sun 
and  I  rarely  happened  to  go  there  at  the  same  hour,  and 
when  we  did,  I  could  not  resist  looking  at  him.  And 
now  the  season  of  gardens  is  over,  antl  tiie  strange  season 
of  the  tracery  of  bare  boughs  is  about  to  begin  and  I 
cannot  delay  any  longer.   .  .   . 

I  liked  so  much  the  thought  that  you  had,  that  we  may 
'  some  dav  go  with  the  bloom  and  be  with  it  always'' ;  for 
spring  is  to  me  the  dearest  of  all  seasons,  and  I  grudge 
every  day  of  it  as  it  passes.  Autumn  is  a  fine  colourist, 
and  winter  etches  even  better  than  Whistler  could,  but 
there  is  nothing  like  the  spring — 

And  I  called  down  a  blessing 

On  the  blossom  of  the  May, 
Because  it  comes  in  beauty. 

And  in  beauty  blows  away. 

Do  you  know  any  of  Yeats''  poems  ?  I  am  afraid  of 
boring  people  with  them,  they  seem  to  me  so  beautiful 
with  the  pathetic,  tremulous  beauty  of  Irish  airs.  The 
trees  led  you  to  the  poets,  and  the  poets  to  sympathy — 
and  I  was  so  glad  to  find  that  you  identified  it  with  ima- 
gination. Imagination  only  makes  frost-work  unless 
it  is  compact  of  sympathy. 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    267 

Certain  ages,  like  certain  people,  are  never  understood 
by  certain  others.  To  those  who  like  angels  to  be  all 
white,  and  devils  all  black,  the  confusion  of  such  a  period 
as  the  Renaissance  is  merely  horrible.  It  bewilders  and 
distresses  them  to  find  that  even  Savonarola  played  a 
double  game;  they  can  see  no  celestial  justice  in  the  fact 
that  even  Lucrezia  Borgia,  when  she  became  a  Duchess, 
was  rather  good.^ 

Conduct  Avas,  to  an  extent  undreamed  of  now,  the 
theme  of  public  discussion.  Every  one  got  up  every 
morning  with  the  impression  that  everything  was  an 
open  question,  and  there  were  very  few  family  secrets, 
because  there  were  very  few  actions  left  of  which  any 
one  felt  ashamed.  .  .  .  They  have  vanished,  those  rulers 
exceeding  magnifical,  who  made  the  most  of  both  worlds. 
Their  Golden  Roses  are  lost,  their  palaces — even  Belri- 
guardo,  the  fairest  palace  in  Italy — are  gone.  But  the 
Golden  Rose  of  their  art  and  their  poetry  blooms  yet  in 
the  Muses"'  Garden,  and  Fancy  builds  the  famous  walls 
again  whenever  she  sighs  over  to  herself  the  soft-sounding 
name  of  Ferrara.^ 


How  absurd  to  suppose  that  seeing  ourselves  as  others 
see  us  should  give  pain !  It  is  to  see  ourselves  as  others 
see  us  that  we  provide  ourselves  with  looking-glasses,  that 
we  have  our  portraits  painted  and  our  photographs  taken, 
that  we  rush  to  plays  by  Mr.  Pinero. 

Art  is  an  odd  thing,  isn't  it?     Ifs  almost  the  only 
thing  that  seems  to  me  to  remain  unchanged  throughout 
one's  life,  and  it  does  away  with  all  possibility  of  hell,  and 
^  From  The  Times  Literary  Supplement,  -  Ibid. 


268    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

all  necessity  of  heaven.  You  forget  the  dead  too,  and  yet 
you  know  it  is  no  treason  to  forget  them  there.  And  you 
forget  yourself. 


I  am  so  glad  you  have  not  got  any  books.  Never,  O  ! 
never,  begin  to  have  any  !  If  you  do,  they  all  marry  each 
other,  and  increase  at  the  rate  of  half  a  library  per  annum. 
Then,  when  you  have  lived  in  the  house  forty-five  years 
they  have  all  got  grand-children,  and  there  is  no  room  in 
the  house  for  anything  else  whatever. 


(From  Dresden.) 
Whether  the  Raphael  Madonna  still  speaks  Italian 
I  do  not  know,  for  speak  to  me  she  will  not.  The 
truth  is,  I  don't  love  her  as  much  as  I  used  to,  and  I 
believe  she  knows  it.  Tlie  Rembrandts  are  overpowering, 
especially  '  Manoah's  Sacrifice.^  Manoah  and  his  wife 
are  kneeling  together,  rapt  and  humble,  he  a  shade  more 
humble,  she  many  shades  more  rapt,  her  eyes  closed, 
and  the  contrast  of  their  folded  hands  enough  to  make 
one  cry.  There  is  an  ineffable  loveliness  about  her  robes 
of  blended  white,  soft  yellow,  and  deep  red.  What  a 
marvellous  instrument  red  is,  and  how  various  in  the 
hands  of  the  great  masters  !  It  means  such  different  things 
with  Titian,  Diirer,  Millais. 


It  drives  me  mad  when  people  call  Rhodes  'an 
Elizabethan,'  and  say  he  is  like  Drake,  of  all  people. 
Drake  wouldn't  have  touched  him  with  a  pair  of  tongs ; 
at  least  I  hope  not.  I  am  pulled  up  in  my  want  of 
charity  by   remembering   that   Gordon   distinctly   liked 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES   269 

and  wanted  him  ;  but  would  he  have  liked  and  wanted 
him  now  ? 


We  read  the  Life  of  Dickens  of  an  evening.  There 
is  much  that  attracts,  and  something  that  repels  me 
about  him  ;  I  think,  for  one  so  deep  in  feeling,  he  was 
curiously  superficial  in  thought.  But  what  a  wealth  of 
genius  !  How  it  comes  tumbling,  bubbling  out  in  his 
private  letters !  He  doesn't  care  how  often  he  misses, 
because  he  knows  he'll  hit  just  as  often,  and  so  he  has 
iiis  fling  at  every  subject  in  the  universe.     And  he  lives. 


I  delight  in  the  new  metres  [in  Robert  Bridges'' 
Demeter\  though  ...  I  often  come  to  grief  over  them. 
I  've  been  reading  Tennyson's  Dcmcter,  which  is  lovely  in 
its  own  way,  but  much  less  deep.  The  mother  and 
daughter  are  altogether  human.  Well,  so  they  are  in 
the  new  one!  but  there's  just  that  strange  touch  of 
remoteness  — of  far-away  divinity — that  makes  it  all 
different.  Don't  you  love  the  crystal  crown  and  the 
purple  robe,  and  the  grandeur  of  innocence  ?  People 
are  so  apt  to  think  it  is  only  simple ;  they  forget 
the  awful  dignity  of  it.  There's  a  beautiful  sonnet 
of  Charles   Lamb's    that    brought    that    home    to    me 


(Of  Shakespeare.) 
I  stayed  at  home  and  read  Txco  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 
What  a  distracting  play  it  is  .   .   .   why  did  I  never  find 
it  out  when  I  read  it  before  ?    That's  the  charmina:  thing 


270    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

about  great  writing,  it  ""s  never  the  same  twice  over.  When 
you  come  back  to  a  place  that  you  haven't  been  to  for 
years  I  can't  quite  make  up  ray  mind  whether  it  is  most 
comforting  or  provoking  to  find  it  exactly  the  same, 
after  all  the  Continental  changes  that  one  fancies  have 
occurred  in  the  geography  of  oneself.  But  when  you 
come  back  to  a  play,  you  come  back  to  find  all  the 
people  saying  perfectly  different  things  in  perfectly 
different  voices.  It  seems  odd  that  the  women  should 
be  so  much  more  cunningly  drawn  than  the  men.  How 
many  Julias  one  has  known,  gentle,  jealous,  generous, 
egotistic  women,  with  a  dash  of  vanity  !  Silvia  is  much 
more  romantic  really,  though  she  doesn't  go  the  length 
of  a  page's  dress.  She  never  thinks  about  her  reputation, 
she  doesn't  strike  the  balance  of  her  charms  enthusiastic- 
ally, like  Julia.  But  she  knows  instinctively  that  one 
romantic  person  will  help  another,  and  that  there's  a 
sort  of  Freemasonry  of  sentiment,  and  it's  this  that 
makes  her  little  relation  with  Sir  Eglamour  so  pretty. 
I  feel  sure,  too,  it 's  her  pure  romance  that  makes  her 
care  for  Julia,  whom  she  has  never  seen,  merely  on 
account  of  her  sad  story,  and  makes  her  give  her  picture 
to  Proteus  in  the  most  inconsistent  way,  when  she  sees 
through  him  the  whole  time.  I  don't  understand 
Valentine's  speech  in  the  last  Act  about  giving  up  his 
rights  in  her  to  Proteus.  It  jars  one.  What  did  it 
mean  ?  That  Valentine  cared  much  more  for  that  calf 
Proteus  than  Proteus  did  for  him  is  evident.  But  to  go 
that  length — and  the  very  minute  after  he  had  found  out 
Proteus's  treachery  !  Of  course,  active,  manly  men  are 
very  oddly  influenced  sometimes  by  men  with  a  greater 
gift  of  flowing  speech.  But  nothing  can  make  it  seem 
natural.     I  suppose  it  is  natural,  or  it  wouldn't  be  there. 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    271 

I  am  reading  Troilus  and  Cressida  over  again,  very 
slowly,  inch  by  inch,  scene  by  scene.  '  Turn  it  about  and 
turn  it  about  for  there ''s  everything  in  it,'  the  Rabbis 
used  to  say  of  the  Bible.  One  turns  it  about  and  turns  it 
about  and  it  is  there ;  everything  in  Shakespeare,  except 
the  Bible.     Even  Robert  Browning  is  there 

'Things  won  are  done.     Joy's  soul  lies  in  the  doing.' 

I  should  have  thought  that  was  R.  B.'s  if  I  had  met  it 
'  howling  in  the  wilderness,'  as  S.T.C.  said  of  a  line  of 
Wordsworth's.  And  this  is  not  much  less  like  him  : 
*  In  the  reproof  of  chance.  Lies  the  true  proof  of  men  ' ; 
only  it  is  better  said.  How  repulsively  Cressida  is 
introduced.  .  .  .  She  repels  me  even  more  than 
Cleopatra.  .  .  .  who  is  on  too  big  a  scale  for  one  to  mind 
much. 


{AlVs  Well  that  Ends  Well)  I  thought  Helena  was 
magnificent  in  Act  i. — that  she  might  be  reckoned  as 
one  of  those  women  who  have  ever  proposed  for  men 
and  kept  their  charm — the  two  others  being  Webster's 
Duchess  of  Malfi  (she  had  to,  because,  though  a  perfect 
gentleman,  he  was  only  her  steward)  and  (but  this  is  a 
far  cry,  because  it's  a  much  slighter  thing  altogether, 
and  she  hadn't  much  charm  to  keep)  Cherbuliez's  Sarah, 
in  Aprh  Fortune  Fa'ite. 

It's  impossible  to  feel  that  the  Duchess  loses  dignity 
for  a  single  instant.  She's  far  more  beautiful  than 
Helena.  After  Act  i.,  it  seemed  to  me  Shakespeare 
fought  shy  of  the  real  problem,  and  lost  himself  and  her 
in  a  maze  of  tiresome  intrigue.  But  I  believe  S.  T. 
Coleridge  thought  the  subject  impossible.  .  .  .  How  much 


272    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

more  delicately  and  poetically  Hero  manages  her  plot  to 
catch  Beatrice,  than  the  men  theirs  for  Benedick.  The 
thing  that  passes  me  is  how  she  could  possibly  forgive 
Claudio  all  in  a  minute  like  that.  Claudio  is  impossible. 
The  only  point  in  his  favour  is  that  Benedick  solidly 
liked  him.  I  suppose  he  was  a  good  soldier.  And  he 
does  have  one  or  two  exquisite  things  to  say.  ...  I 
don''t  think  Beatrice  would  have  been  the  true  heart 
she  is  if  she  had  not  yielded  so  quickly.  Besides,  I  am, 
in  my  heart  of  hearts,  almost  certain  that  she  did  care 
before.  He  certainly  did  .  .  .  The  gi'ayide  dame  is  not 
often  a  coquette,  whatever  else  she  may  be ;  there  were 
more  grandes  dames  in  Shakespeare's  days  than  there 
are  now,  I  imagine,  and  women  had  not  been  taught 
so  carefully  that  it  was  modest  to  pretend  they  did  not 
feel  what  they  did.  ...  I  think  Measure  for  Measure 
is  one  of  the  finest  things  that  Shakespeare  ever  did, 
even  among  his  marvels.  ...  I  don't  quite  know  how 
to  bear  Isabella's  terrible  explosion  of  wrath  when 
Claudio  reveals  his  baseness.  It  hurts  like  steel ;  and 
yet,  what  else  could  she  have  said.?  The  one  blot  on 
the  play  is  that  it  is  a  play  at  all,  and  therefore  Isabella 
is  obliged  to  countenance  the  horrid  truth  about  poor 
Mariana.  The  real  Isabella  could  not  have  borne 
the  thought  of  any  woman  being  married  to  Angelo, 


To-morrow  week  I  am  goings  to  see  Hamlet  and 
Macbeth — where  Shakespeare  never  saw  them — at  Strat- 
ford. By  the  way,  is  it  not  a  delusion  that  Henry  V. 
is  his  model  King.?  He  makes  him  cold,  heartless,  cruel 
—  infinitely  less  attractive  to  women  than  Hotspur. 
Can't    think    why    everybody    adores    him,  just    on   the 


PASSAGES  FROU  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    273 

strength  of  Crispin''s  day,  and  forgets  his  treatment  of 
FalstafF,  Katlierinc,  his  own  father,  and  the  prisoners. 

They  didn't  deal  in  ideal  men  in  the  days  of 
Elizabeth.  They  were  extremely  practical — and  so  is 
Henry  V.  Still  they  had  a  tendency  to  consider  in  a 
practical  way  what  Heaven  would  think  of  them  and 
their  doings — one  sees  it  in  Henry's  prayer  ;  he  knew  his 
cause  was  bad  the  whole  time. 


We  went  to  Macbeth  the  other  day.  Glorious !  It 
sent  me  on  for  a  week.  Funny — that  all  those  daggers 
and  ghosts  and  witches  and  things  should  leave  one 
perfectly  reconciled  and  happy  and  stroked  the  right 
way.  But  what  a  very  stupid  woman  Lady  Macbeth 
really  was !  Fancy  thinking  that  other  people  would 
think  that  two  men  would  commit  a  murder  and  then  go 
(juietly  to  sleep,  each  one  having  just  arranged  his  blood- 
stained dagger  neatly  on  his  pillow,  for  every  one  to  see. 

One  can  never  be  unhappy  oneself  without  knowing 
that  all  griefs  are  (in  a  way)  relations.  And  the  uncer- 
tainty of  one  is  the  uncertainty  of  all.  Then  the  comfort 
that  must  come  is  the  comfort  of  all,  too.  They  do 
bear  it,  they  are  helped  to  bear  it.  I  think,  more  and 
more,  that  the  unity  of  men  is  most  wonderful — and  the 
Unity  that  underlies,  that  overarches  all. 

I  think  witii  you  about  the  way  Silence  prompts  one 
to  worship ;  I  suppose  it  is  the  voice  of  God  calling. 
To  be  silent  means  to  feel  oneself  alone.  '  And  there  is 
no  place  so  alone,  which  He  doth  not  fill.' 

s 


274    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

In  the  Abbey  and  at  the  Temple  they  sang,  In  didci 
Jnh'ilo.  '  Would  that  we  were  there  ! '  Don"'t  you  love 
it  ?  And  how  I  wish  I  were  somewhere  where  you  could 
be  decently  good  without  fighting  people  all  round. 
I  really  would  like  to  be  good,  only  I  hate  fighting 
people.  Why  is  it  such  a  desperately  difficult  business  ? 
Would  that  we  were  there  ! 


It  is  as  difficult  to  be  humble  as  it  is  easy  to  despair. 
Despair's  a  very  conceited  thing,  but  I  might  as  well 
hope  to  be  Michael  Angelo  as  to  be  humble.  The  grace 
of  the  lowliest  is  only  given  to  the  highest. 


Death  is  become  a  more  practical  thing  now  it  is 
palpably  so  much  nearer  than  in  the  days  when  I 
thought  it  was  going  to  happen  to-morrow.  But  it 
seems  much  farther  ofl^',  as  practical  things  do. 

(OK    THE    DEATH    OF    JOACHIM ) 

To  me,  when  a  great  light  like  that  becomes  a  star, 
there  is  a  most  strange  mingled  feeling  of  intense  thank- 
fulness to  have  been  allowed  to  be  near  it  here — of  quiet 
triumph  in  the  course  finished — of  unspeakable  grief  at 
the  loss,  and  fear  lest  that  which  was  completely  un- 
deserved should  never  again  be  granted  me. 


If  Robert  Browning  could  grow  old — think  what  a 
vouth  his  must  have  been — surely  we  can.  With  love 
round  us,  and  death   before   us,   how   can    life    ever  be 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    275 

commonplace  ?     I  know  I  think  it  can  sometimes.     And 
then  I  deserve — to  die  ?     No,  to  live  to  be  ninety. 


Here  is  ,  writing  to  me  as  to  whether  there  is  any 

room  for  angels  '  in  our  new  conceptions  of  earth  and 
heaven.'  Our  new  conceptions !  If  earth  and  heaven 
are  not  going  to  be  any  better  than  that,  welcome  the 
lu'ant.  I  for  one  can't  conceive  any  heaven  that  I 
shouldn't  be  tired  of  in  a  month  ...  I  suppose  it's 
because  she 's  such  an  angel  herself  that  she  thinks  they 
can't  be  dispensed  with  so  easily. 


I  don't  think  you  would  have  disliked  the  allusion  to 
Peter  warming  himself,  if  you  had  heard  it.  It  was 
casual  and  passing — no  stress  was  laid  on  it.  Perhaps, 
without  meaning  to  do  so,  I  gave  it  undue  importance 
from  the  fact  that  it  appealed  to  me  because  I  am  myself 
the  slave  of  warmth,  and  have  so  often  neglected  a  duty 
because  I  was  mesmerised  by  the  fire. 

I  don't  (juite  understand  you  about  Pilate.  Surelv  his 
strength,  at  any  rate,  was  not  '  to  sit  still.'  He  sat  still 
and  washed  his  hands,  and  it  was  all  wrong.  If  he  had 
'  put  a  decisive  act  between  himself  and  temptation,'  he 
would  have  seized  his  chance.  What  he  did  was  the 
weakest  thing  he  could  do,  not  the  strongest.  It  is  only 
when  sitting  still  is  the  hardest,  most  difficult  course, 
that  there  is  strength  in  it  ?  Again  I  sym]iathise.  I  have 
so  often  made  my  own  temptations  much  harder  in  the 
end,  because  I  did  not  pluck  up  courage  enough  to  do  the 
decisive  act,  when  I  knew  it  ought  to  be  done.  A\'e  arc 
not  taught  that  we  should  let  the  temptation  get  as  bad 


276    PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

as  possible  before  we  try  to  do  anything  ;  else  why  should 
we  pray  '  Lead  us  not  into  temptation  ""  ? 


More  and  more  as  life  goes  on  I  feel  as  if  one  of  the 
big  temptations  of  it  were  to  rest  content  with  negative 
ease  and  freedom  from  worry,  and  to  forget  that  that 's 
only  the  body  of  happiness  and  not  the  soul.  Looking 
into  the  fluffy  white  heart  of  an  oleander,  the  other  day, 
a  kind  of  rapture  at  its  uselessness  came  over  me,  at  the 
divine  heedlessness  of  anything  but  glory  and  beauty  at 
the  making  of  it. 


Self-sacrifice  is  the  noblest  thing  in  the  world,  but  to 
sacrifice  other  people  even  for  the  very  noblest  things  is 
as  wrong  as  persecution. 


I  was  thinking  of  Mat  Arnold's  Buried  Life  only  the 
other  day.  It  has  the  beautiful  strangeness,  still  more 
the  beautiful  familiarity  of  the  truth  of  art  to  the  truth 
of  life.  The  greatest  artist  could  not  understand  it  if 
he  had  never  lived  it.  It  would  have  been  double-Dutch 
to  Goethe.  Therein  you  and  I  have  the  advantage. 
What  a  funny  thought !     Hush  ! 


Two  or  three  times  I  have  had  that  awful  overwhelm- 
ing horror  of  death ;  but  it  has  always  passed,  and 
though  I  daresay  it  may  come  again,  I  don^'t  mind  so 
much  now  because  I  think  it  has  more  to  do  with  the 
body  than  with  the  mind,  and  is  not  a  reasonable  thing. 


PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES    277 

As  YO"  say  so  beautifully  about  our  life,  so  it  is  with 
that  part  of  it  which  we  call  death,  'we  are  in  God's 
hands.'  There  viu.st  be  something  dreadful  in  the 
thought  of  the  change.  Our  Lord  felt  that  more  even 
than  many  men  and  women  do — but  I  cannot  think  the 
change  itself,  when  it  comes,  will  be  dreadful.  There 
are  so  many  worlds  to  see — all  the  stars.  And  more 
and  more,  as  they  search  space,  they  find  there  is  not 
such  a  thing  anywhere,  no  emptiness,  only  more  stars, 
more  worlds.  x\nd  don't  you  sometimes  have  the  feeling 
that  we  could  see  much  better  if  we  did  not  have  to  look 
through  eyes,  if  we  were  all  sight  ?  .  .  .  1  used  to  feel 
as  if  we  could  never  know  each  otlier  again  and  must  get 
lost  and  be,  as  you  say,  '  different,'  but  as  I  grow  older,  it 
seems  that  love  is  to  the  soul  what  life  is  to  the  body, 
and  if  there 's  any  meaning  at  all  in  the  soul's  life  it 
must  mean  that  life  never  ends.  I  don't  know.  We  are 
all  in  the  dark  about  it.  But  Hope  is  Hope  none  the 
less  because  she  is  blindfold.  Only  when  some  one  dies, 
all  thoughts  are  swept  away  and  all  reasons,  and  feeling 
is  left  alone ;  and  we  can  only  feel  desolation  and — God. 


We  read  William  James  ...  I  cannot  make  out  the 
subconscious  self.  For  three-fourths  of  a  big  volume  he 
proves  in  the  most  conclusive  way  that  it's  a  fool,  and 
then  he  seems  to  say  it's — God.  V.  says  this  is  very 
helpful — ^^just  as  wonderful  as  Evolution  and  sure  to  be 
the  Science  of  to-morrow.  If  so,  I  am  very  glad  I  live 
to-dav. 


It  comes  to  me  that  what  we  seem  to  need  we  are  not 


278  PASSAGES  FROM  LETTERS  AND  DIARIES 

given.  Joy  cannot  be  born  of  necessity.  There  is  need 
of  patience  and  need  of  peace,  but  no  cry  of  need  will 
bring  joy. 


I  lay  for  some  time  letting  the  sky  wake  me.  From 
the  bed  you  see  nothing  but  sky.  It  was  not '  the  body  of 
heaven '  in  his  fulness,  it  was  a  thin  wash  of  faint,  almost 
transparent  blue.  I  began  to  think  how  tremendous  it 
woidd  be  to  go  out  on  a  morning  like  that  and  stand 
alone  with  God,  conscious  that  the  earth-life  would  never 
rush  in  dividingly.  Savonarola  was  in  my  mind — and 
that  bit  of  Johannes  Agricola.  '  For  I  intend  to  get  to 
God.  For  'tis  to  God  I  speed  so  fast.'  All  that  I  felt 
passed  into  one  deep  human  longing,  I  don't  know  how 
or  why,  except  that  below  the  surface  all  feeling  seems  to 
be  one.  There  came  those  words,  '  We  never  know  what 
God  is  till  we  have  given  up  something  for  him.'  I  have 
given  up  nothing  and  don't  feel  called  to,  and  am  as 
happy  as  can  be. 


UNPUBLISHED  POEMS 


UNPUBLISHED  POEMS 

LINES 

Stay  with  me,  happv  Day  ! 
Fly  not  away  ! 
Dost  tliou  think,  when  thou  art  fled, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better,  being  dead  ? 
Not  so,  not  so  ! 
To-morrow  I  shall  say, 
'  'Twas  lonoj  ago  ! — 
He  lies,  for  ever  shorn  of  rainbow  wings. 
Among  forgotten  things." 

GRIEF  AND  DEATH 

Deep  joy  was  mine,  I  owned  a  fountain  fair 
That  watered  with  its  soft  refreshing  dew 
The  plants  and  flowers  that  in  my  garden  grew 
And  made  them  spring  and  bud  and  blossom  there 

And  boasting  of  the  world  without,  I  spake, 
'  Come  sit  within  my  honeysuckle  bowers. 
And  breathe  the  sweet  scent  of  my  lily  flowers, 
And  listen  to  the  song  the  waters  make." 

Strong  grief  was  mine,  I  gat  me  forth  alone, 
Into  my  garden  dry  and  bare  I  stept, 
And  laid  me  down  upon  the  grass  and  wept. 
No  ear,  divine  or  human,  heard  my  moan, 
For  joy  bids  welcome  all  the  guests  that  come. 
But  sorrow  hath  no  voice — Despair  is  dumb. 


282  UNPUBLISHED  POEMS 


TO  ONE  WHO  WAS  NURSING  A 
BLIND  FATHER 

The  other  day 
I  thought  and  thought  and  evei-  thought  again, 
How,  while  I  sat  in  joy,  apart  from  men, 
In  perfect  joy  of  sun  and  sea  and  air, 
You  sat  within  the  reach  of  nothing  fair. 
In  darkness  with  the  darkened.     Then  and  there 
Intolerable  pity  broke  in  prayer 
Hushed  by  a  whisper  those  wild  words  above: 
*  How  dar'st  thou  pity  whom  I  greatly  love/ 


TO 

Dear,  you  are  on  the  road  to  fame. 
And  I,  upon  no  road  at  all ; 
But  wander  where  men's  voices  call, 
This  way  and  that ;  no  two  the  same. 
And  thou  wilt  make  thyself  a  name 
To  captivate  and  to  enthrall. 
And  when  the  dusky  years  shall  fall, 
To  live  in  characters  of  flame. 
Yet  to  one  goal  our  footsteps  tend. 
Though  diversely  they  wander  here. 
Where  we  begin  will  be  our  end, 
And  I,  the  nameless,  do  not  fear 
That  thou  wilt  e'er  forget,  my  friend. 
How  once  we  called  each  other  Dear. 


UNPUBLISHED  POEMS  283 

TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND 
Now  when  the  sweet  sunny  weather 
Quickens  all  that  once  was  dead 

I  remember  how  we  two, 

You  and  I,  I  and  you, 
Wandered  about  the  streets  together, 
Reading  the  books  that  had  to  be  read, 
Saying  the  things  that  cannot  be  said. 

The  world  was  young,  and  we  were  younger 
In  those  bright  forgotten  days, 

I  remember  how  we  two, 

You  and  I,  I  and  you, 
Read  and  read  for  the  spirit's  hunger. 
Walked  in  the  old  familiar  ways, 
Talked  and  talked  for  each  other''s  praise. 

The  world  is  young,  but  we  are  older, 
Many  a  book  we  shall  read  no  more — 

I  remember  how  we  two, 

You  and  I,  I  and  you, 
Vowed  that  love  should  not  grow  colder. 
That  we  would  love  as  we  loved  before, 
And  the  years  should  make  us  love  the  more. 

TO  TIME  THE  COMFORTER 

Dumb  Comforter  of  woes  ! 

The  depths  of  whose  deep  comfort  no  one  knows  ; 

Whose  consolations  on  the  spirit  steal 

More  gently  than  Love's  gentlest  word ;  and  heal 

Where  Love  falls  back  affrighted  ;  only  life 

Proves  Thee  the  Comforter  of  mortal  strife. 

Of  all  that  doth  begin  and  end — that  He 

May  speak  in  thy  dread  silence  endlessly  ! 


APPENDIX 


NOTES  OF  THE  TABLE  TALK  OF 
WILLIAM  CORY 

AT    SOIME    caiEKK    CLASSES    WHICH    HE    tiAVE    FOR 

MARY  COLERIDGE  and  Otheks 


Those  who  knew  William  Cory,  the  poet  who  gave  us  lonica, 
the  historian  who  wrote  The  Outlines  of  English  History,  still 
more,  the  inspired  teacher,  the  erratic  scholar  of  genius, 
may  in  these  notes  of  his  talk  get  again  some  likeness  of  the 
man  they  knew.  They  will  recall  his  posture,  as  with  a 
kind  of  fierce  but  timid  abruptness,  he  uttered  the  words 
here  recorded,  sitting  deep  in  his  arm-chair,  his  head,  so  like 
that  of  Cicero,  bent  forward,  his  hand  over  his  eyes — a  habit 
of  his  due  as  much  to  shyness  as  to  short  sight — until, 
warmed  by  his  subject,  he  would  suddenly  raise  them  and 
an  unforgettable  flash  of  intellect  electrified  and  enlightened 
his  companions. 

Such  notes  as  these  are  bound  to  be  disjointed,  partly 
because  so  much  which  they  recount  concerned  the  lesson 
and  what  arose  from  it — more  than  this,  because  of  William 
Cory's  miraculous  power  of  teaching  twenty  things  at  once 
which  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  subject  on 
hand.  So  that  you  were  in  the  midst  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion or  the  law  about  English  Juries,  when  you  thought  you 
Avere  learning  the  First  Aorist  or  mastering  some  dates  in 
Greek  history.  And  this  quickness  of  his  never  left  you 
bewildered;  indeed  it  made  you  clearer  than  before,  a 
result  helped  by  his  rich  gift  for  illustration,  for  analogy. 
His  own  comparison  of  the  Greek  tongue  to  a  })lant  with 
tendrils  growing  one  from  the  other  well  describes  his 
way  of  teaching,  and  the  fashion  in  which  his  ideas  and 
images  sprang  spontaneously  each  from  each,  making  a 
unity  out  of  many  things.  Mary  Coleridge  wrote  down  his 
words  as  she  caught  them,  at  the  Greek  classes  that  he  held 
for  her  and  three  or  four  others,  and  she  often  caught  them 
brokenly,  without  the  links  that  bound  one  topic  to  the 
next.  To  preserve  the  living  freshness  of  her  account,  I 
have  added  no  explanatory  comments  excepting  where  the 
connection  between  passages  seemed  absent.  And  this 
Prefatory  Note  is  only  written  for  the  sake  of  such  as  have 
never  seen  him,  and  so  have  no  memory  of  his  person  to 
lend  force  to  their  impression  of  his  talk. 

Editoh. 


NOTES  OF  THE  TABLE  TALK  OF 
WILLIAM  CORY 

Feh.  3r(f,  1886.— Snowing   hard,  when    E and  I 

got  to  the  Swiss  Cottage,  so  we  took  a  hansom,  saying, 
or  trying  to  say,  the  verb  %pa&)  as  we  went  along. 

' "'"''  XP*}/*^  '•>  what  i.v  the  creature  doing  't '  said  E 

dreamily,  in  sore  anxiety  of  mind  as  to  whither  the  man, 
who  did  not  know  his  way,  would  drive  us  next.  It 
sounded  like  a  new  kind  of  interjection. 

Mr.  Cory  opened  the  door  ;  he  was  surprised  to  see  us 
— offered  us  brandy,  hot  water,  etc. 

'  What  have  you  given  him  ?  The  fare 's  2s.  Settled 
bv  regulation.  (An  extra  6d.  bestowed.)  Remember, 
that 's  for  your  horse.' 

The  lesson  was  on  Xenophon's  Memorab'/lia,  Lib.  i., 
cap.  L 

TrXtjBovai]';  dyopa<;,  when  the  market-place  was  full,  i.e., 
at  110071,  rather  at  9  a.m.  A  friend  of  mine  from  Japan 
told  me  that  they  have  no  market  or  place,  or  public, 
open-air  place  of  meeting  and  discussion  there  at  all. 
The  Japanese  are  tame.  They  were  well  tamed  250 
years  ago.  When  I  was  at  Corfu,  I  used  to  see  the 
people  there,  men  and  women,  as  they  went  to  their 
work  in  the  morning,  gathering  together  and  talking, 
just  as  they  did  at  Athens. 

K6a-fio<; :  1st  meaning  (as  of  mundus)  Order. 


288  NOTES  OF  THE 

avdyicaL^ — -Jbrccfi  in  plural  (*  violences ''  in  Balin  and 
Balaii).  Xenophon  means  to  express  that  Socrates  did 
not  get  into  a  scrape  with  the  people  of  Athens  by  con- 
tradicting the  poptdar  belief  that  each  particular  thing 
had  been  created  by  a  special  god  at  the  beginning. 
'  Who  did  get  into  a  scrape  ?  "* 

Blank  silence. 

'  Diagoras.  A  most  interesting  man.  You'll  find  all 
about  him  in  Grote.  (Grote  was  a  splendid  fellow  him- 
self; loved  the  truth.)  Once,  when  he  was  out  at  sea,  a 
storm  came  on,  and  the  sailors  wanted  to  throw  him 
overboard — make  a  Jonah  of  him — saying  that  the  storm 
had  been  sent  because  he  was  an  atheist.  He  pointed 
to  all  the  other  ships  that  were  tossing  about  on  the 
waves,  and  asked  them  if  they  thought  that  all  those 
had  atheists  on  board  them.'' 

[^1  propos  of  people  iiot  being  able  to  make  winds  and 
waters,  however  much  they  knew.]  It  is  not  true  that 
knowledge  of  how  a  thing  is  made  is  useless  unless  you 
know  how  to  make  it ;  but  in  some  cases  the  double 
knowledge  is  ours.  We  can  now  make  ultramarine  instead 
of  having  to  cut  up  lapis  lazuli  for  it. 

iTTi-ylrTjcj^Lo-aL,  put  it  to  the  vote.  The  reason  you  ladies 
have  no  votes  is  that  you  can't  fight.  There's  your 
friend,  the  cabman  ;  I'm  afraid  he'll  be  your  enemy  by 
the  time  you  've  done. 

The  gods  Jcnora  everything  ahoays.  If  Socrates  really 
believed  this,  there  was  no  particular  force  in  it,  because 
it  was  universal.  The  very  essence  of  belief  in  divine 
communication  is,  that  it  should  happen  at  some  times 
and  not  at  others. 

KaXo^  KCL'yado'i  means  a  perfect  gentleman — everything 
that  one  would  wish  one's  son  to  be. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       289 

Religion  can  only  be  taught  by  the  example  of  a  life, 
not  by  texts  nor  precepts.  Empedocles  was  a  great 
teacher.  Matthew  Arnold  worked  him  up  into  a 
poem. 

E said  she  had  read  it. 

I  am  gratified  to  hear  it.  Very  few  people  have. 
When  it  first  came  out  it  fell  so  flat  that  this  ill  success 
of  his  second  work  quite  damped  Mr,  Arnold's  genial 
courage.  I  met  him  afterwards,  and  he  was  pleased  to 
hear  that  a  few  people  at  Cambridge  had  liked  it. 
Abelarcl  was  another  great  teacher. 

Many  great  teachers  are  mythical,  you  know.  Luther 
is  not,  but  then  he  does  not  appear  quite  so  amiable. 
Socrates  wonders  that  any  one  possessing  virtue  should 
take  money  for  teaching. 

X^'-piv  eiSevai  is  the  common  expression  for  to  be  grate- 
ful. There  is  no  proper  equivalent  for  our  ingratitude ; 
dyvcofMoa-vvi]  is  not  the  same  thing.  There's  a  little 
touch  of  vulgarity  in  the  thought  of  any  reward  at  all. 
Modern  times  have  gone  further.  There  was  a  person 
called  S.  T.  Coleridge,  wdio  lived  at  Highgate,  who  wrote 
some  lines  about  giving  out  light  like  the  sun,  whether  it 
is  absorbed  or  reflected. 

Unless  the  cultivation  of  virtue  he  corruption  is  not 
very  brilliant  wit  on  Xenophon's  part.  Homely  worsted 
stocking  compared  with  the  shot  silk  of  Plato. 

We  use  few  Perfects  except  the  word  ought.  Such 
words  are  only  curiosities  in  English,  but  practical  things 
in  Greek.  There  is  frightful  over-substantiving  in 
English.  If  you  look  at  an  account  of  a  meeting  in  a 
newspaper,  and  the  resolutions  passed,  almost  all  the 
verbs  seem  to  have  disappeared. 

There  was  a  rotten  and  superstitious  way  of  learning 


290  NOTES  OF  THE 

by  heart  the  Greek  verbs  that  govern  the  genitive.  A 
man  called  Coleridge/  a  great  teacher,  was  horrified  to 
find  I  didn't  know  it.  All  those  things  are  far  better 
learnt  by  observation.  Attic  is  the  clipping  of  the 
Ionic. 

SiaTpi^ci)  is  rub  away,  spend  time,  live— then  essai/, 
from  the  idea  of  rubbing  away  time  while  writing. 

8iadpv7rr6/jL€vo<;  one  of  the  most  amusing  words  we 
have — To  break  in  pieces,  break  down,  pat  with  the 
hand,  enervate.     Tryphena  and  Tryphosa. 

[Here  came  the  '  conclusion  applied  to  the  case  of 
Critias  and  Alcibiades.'] 

Alcibiades  was  a  smart  young  gentleman,  nephew  of 
Pericles,  a  beautiful  person.  The  Athenians  had  that 
respect  for  blood  which  is  innate  in  man.  We  like  the 
historical  nephews  of  famous  historical  uncles.  There  is 
Mr.  Trevelyan  in  our  own  day — not  that  we  care  much 
for  that.  Alcibiades  went  with  his  pet  quail  to  pay 
a  large  contribution  for  some  national  purpose ;  he 
belonged  to  a  rich  family.  All  the  Athenians  applauded. 
The  quail  flew  away.  Every  one  who  was  there  rushed 
to  try  and  catch  it  for  him. 

E .     '  And  did  they  catch  it  ? ' 

'  Some  one  had  that  honour.' 

I  said  I  thought  it  strange  that  Xenophon  should  say 
of  Critias  and  Alcibiades  that,  being  young,  they  were 
probably  most  ungrateful. 

'  Yes,  it 's  a  curious  word.  If  yo^u  don't  get  gratitude 
then,  you  won't  get  it  afterwards.' 

[Our  gratitude,  being  young,  was  constantly  too  much 
for  us.     Payment,  when  it  was  proposed  by  our  elders, 
had  been  shortly  and  sternly  refused.     At  the  very  first 
^  Edward  Coleridge,  tutor  at  Eton  College. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY.         291 

lesson  Mr.  Cory  took  occasion  to  exemplify  some  rule  of 
grammar  by  this  sentence :  '  I  love  to  teach  without 
being  paid  for  it.' 

We  used  to  bring  a  bunch  of  llowers  for  Mrs.  Cory 
sometimes.  I  took  irises,  knowing  that  he  was  very  fond 
of  them.  I  never  see  them  now  without  thinking  of  him. 
The  cyclamen  was  another  favourite.  He  had  a  gold 
brooch  made  for  '  Madam '  in  the  form  of  one,  but  it 
looked  heavy. 

The  repetition  of  a  number  of  words  of  tlie  same  kind 
bored  him,  and  he  would  cut  short  our  translation  by 
saying:  'The  band  as  before!'  in  imitation  of  the 
Vicar  who  declined  to  read  '  the  cornet,  flute,  liarp, 
sackbut,''  etc.,  in  Daniel  over  and  over  again.] 

..."  The  Scotch  used  to  be  the  great  people  for 
style.  I  learnt  about  it  first  from  Blair's  Lectures. 
Nowadays  it's  supposed  to  come  of  itself — to  be  a  gift 
— and  so  it  is — with  a  few  people. 

There  are  different  ways  of  saying  Yes — <^T]fxl  irdvv  [lev 
ovv,  etc.  The  Romans  got  on  without  it.  In  modern 
Greek  it  is  fiakiara,  a  very  heavy  word.  Is  the  German 
Na  used  for  No  ?  I  have  just  been  reading  the  life  of  a 
man  who  said  he  could  not  enter  the  German  Army 
because  all  soldiers  had  to  be  confirmed,  and  when  he  was 
asked  if  he  believed  the  Faith,  he  could  not  say  Ja,  as  he 
did  not  believe  a  word  of  the  preparation,  '  Say  Na ! ' 
said  the  Minister  who  had  prepared  him.  And  the  Na 
passed  unnoticed  among  the  crowd  of  Jas  !  You  must 
emancipate  yourselves  from  the  word  become,  when  you 
translate  [  ?  ].  You  cannot  say  of  soldiers  fighting  : 
They  became  brave  men  ;  it  nmst  be  '  proved  themselves.' 

.  .  .  The  Greeks  had  an  office  for  seeing  to  the  respect- 
ability of  foreigners  ;  a  proper  citizen  became  responsible 


292  NOTES  OF  THE 

for  every  one.  Modern  nations  would  do  well  to  imitate 
this — especially  the  Swiss. 

Xenophon  was  himself  a  renegade,  a  traitor ;  but  some 
people  are  very  hard  upon  him.  He  was  disgusted  with 
the  Athenians  for  their  treatment  of  Socrates.  He  had 
his  son  brought  up  in  Sparta.  Demosthenes  was  a 
political  saint  and  consistent  to  the  last.  Xenophon  was 
not.  Theognis  lived  at  Megara,  near  Athens.  He  was 
a  vehement  Tory — hated  Democrats.  The  early  politics 
of  Greece  are  woven  into  his  poems  and  those  of  Solon. 

aZoKiixo<i  is  disapproved  of — '  castaway '  in  the  Bible, 
where  it  should  be  translated  unquarified ;  the  image  is 
taken  from  citizenship — shows  St.  Paul's  knowledge  of 
politics. 

The  Roman  word  for  rvpavvo'^  is  Dictator.  When  a 
Dictator  prolonged  his  power  indefinitely,  like  Julius 
Caesar,  he  was  said  to  be  Rex — a  term  of  horror.  The 
whole  doctrine  of  Constitutional  Government  is :  You 
must  show  cmtse — either  before  or  after  what  is  done  for 
the  nation.  Sometimes,  of  course,  you  have  to  do  the 
thing  first  and  ask  leave  afterwards.  The  Greeks  had 
graduated  taxation,  about  which  people  fuss  so  now,  and 
they  don't  seem  to  have  minded  it." 

[Before  the  lesson  ended,  something  turned  his  mind  to 
Henry  Bradshaw  (Fellow  of  King's),  Cambridge,  and  the 
friend  of  William  Cory  as  of  so  many  others. — Ed.] 

..."  Hospitality  was  innate  in  him.  He  never  had 
to  learn  it  as  other  people  have.  '  He  gave  as  an  open 
stream  gives  its  water  to  every  one  that  comes,  because 
he  could  not  help  it." 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  COHY       293 

March  M—May  19,  188G 

PLATO"'s    '  APOLOGY  ' 

"Such  easy,  trickling  talk  !  In  Plato  it  is  all  talk  and 
not  artificial  speech.  This  is  his  art.  Few  men  can 
make  a  long  period  grammatically  ;  others  are  carried 
away  by  their  grammar  to  say  things  they  never  meant 
to.  A  friend  of  mine  once  said  to  me  :  '  Plato  is  like  a 
vegetable."'  The  sentences  grow  ;  they  are  like  delightful 
things  with  tendrils.  The  position  of  the  words  is  the 
delightful  thing ;  the  constant  surprises.  The  man  you 
have  got  in  the  first  few  lines  is  already  remarkable. 
Socrates  is  not  a  humorist — not  a  wit — he  delights  in 
playing.  He  was  no  martyr;  there  was  no  touch  of 
inspiration  in  his  simple  resolve  to  stay  at  his  post.  It 
was  just  obedience  to  law.  I  know  no  man  so  interesting 
to  the  imagination  who  did  so  little  attitudinising. 
There  are  plain  acts  and  transcendental.  The  captain 
who  refused  to  give  up  the  keys  of  his  magazine  to  the 
mutineers  and  tossed  them  into  the  sea  was  not  courting 
death.  He  merely  stuck  to  law  and  didn't  care.  The 
man  who  saved  a  lieutenant  from  being  hung  off  Spithead, 
by  putting  his  own  head  into  the  noo.sc,  acted  transcen- 
dentally.     Both  were  heroes. 

The  germ  of  an  Established  Church  is  in  the  demand 
of  Socrates  to  be  maintained  as  a  public  preacher.  If  he 
had  conducted  a  Dialogue  with  them  in  his  own  way, 
they  would  have  talked  perhaps  for  an  hour  and  a  half, 
and  then  only  arrived  at  one  point.   .  .   . 

The  time  allowed  for  speaking  was  measured  by  a 
water  clock.  Rather  hard  when  a  man  was  speaking  for 
his  life  !  It  is  very  curious  to  think  that  he  had  to  speak 
to  500  people. 


294  NOTES  OF  THE 

6  Tra?  XP^^°^  (^^*^  rvkole  of  time),  the  right  expression 
for  eternity.  If  there  is  a  ridiculous  thing  in  modern  talk 
it  is  the  distinction  between  time  and  eternity. 

If  we  were  disposed  to  be  very  hard  on  Socrates,  we 
might  say  it  was  a  pity,  when  he  spoke  of  those  whom  he 
hoped  to  meet  in  the  other  world,  that  he  mentioned 
people  like  Palamedes  and  Ajax,  whose  injuries  he  wished 
to  compare  with  his  own,  instead  of  those  who  were 
really  worth  knowing ;  but  here  we  get  a  really  character- 
istic bit. 

av€^era(7To<;  /Slo';,  life — nncriticiscd — by  oneself  as  well 
as  othei's.  There  is  nothing  more  central  and  cardinal 
than  this  in  all  the  writings  of  Plato.  Self-knowledge  is 
got  by  talking  to  others ;  certain  people  whom  one 
happens  to  know  once  or  twice  in  one's  life  serve 
as  a  kind  of  touchstone.  Happiness  consists  in  right 
thinking. 

Socrates  is  to.  /xerecopa  t^povrtarrj'^,  a  transcende)ital 
speculator — what  Aristophanes  called  'an  air-treader,' 
and  Napoleon  '  ideologue ' — a  doctrinaire  in  politics. 
'  None  of  your  metaphysicians  ! '  George  iii.  said.  In 
The  Clouds  the  two  Xor^ou,  the  better  and  the  worse, 
are  personified.  Aristophanes  represents  the  common 
sense  of  Athens.  As  the  enemy  of  Socrates,  he  is  of 
course  our  enemy.  Common  sense  lapsed  between  the 
entry  of  the  barbarians  into  Rome  and  the  middle  of 
the  last  century.  It  was  re-discovered  by  Johnson — 
'  None  of  your  cant,  Sir ! ' 

The  ancients  were  always  striving  after  cosmogony, 
'  No,  gentlemen,  I  assure  you  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
these  things,"  says  Socrates.  It  was  a  waste  of  time. 
See  Mill's  Logic.  Nearly  two  hundred  years  after — 
time  of  the  second  Punic  War — came  Archimedes.     One 


TABLl-:  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       295 

hundred  and  sixty  years  ufter,  Lucretius,  contemporary 
of"  Julius  Caesar,  Seventy-three  years  after,  Pliny,  with 
his  Encyclopedia.  The  Schoolmen,  puzzling  themselves 
over  such  questions  as  '  How  many  angels  could  dance 
on  the  point  of  a  needle  ? '  were  their  legitimate  suc- 
cessors— as  it  were,  grinding  at  a  mill,  with  nothing 
but  wind  in  it.  But  there  is  no  doubt  they  exercised 
their  minds  in  this  way  as  schoolboys  exercise  theirs 
with  Euclid. 

The  worth  of  literature  depends  on  the  power  of  a 
book  to  exalt  the  character  of  an  individual  or  a 
nation.  Scott  did  this.  Literature  is  not  worth  much 
at  present. 

Bolingbroke,  Robertson,  Hume  (who  envied  Robertson) 
and  Gibbon  (who  envied  both)  were  masters  of  English 
style. 

The  French  talk  in  crystals  and  Avrite  in  crystals. 
The  Greeks  sometimes  did  and  generally  did  not.  The 
Latins  cling  to  a  rule  till  it  becomes  almost  monotonous ; 
the  Greeks  have  no  sooner  made  one  than  they  delight 
in  breaking  it  and  kicking  up  their  heels.  Some  of  the 
Greek  words  are  transparent.  It  is  like  chemistry — you 
can  see  the  idea  forming.  Some  of  them  catch  hold  of 
one's  mind  like  creeping  plants. 

The  Greeks  at  one  time  hated  the  sound  of  m- ;  such 
a  word  as  Krjvcro<i  (census)  in  the  New  Testament  would 
have  been  a  monster  to  them.  Tidel^  is  an  escape  from 
TiOev^.  We  are  most  unfortunate  in  the  words  relation^ 
connection  in-la-ic.  I  wish  they  could  be  changed ;  but 
not  even  Gladstone  can  do  that.  Fancy  having  to  call 
your  sister-in-law  a  relation  !  The  Latins  were  happier 
with   their  comanguUieus  and  affinis.     w  is  the  sign  ot 


296  NOTES  OF  THE 

O  !  as  the  Latins  did.  The  participle  is  like  ivy — it  must 
grow  over  a  trunk.  If  we  can"'t  find  the  trunk,  we  must 
imagine  it."" 

[When  we  went  wrong,  our  master  would  say :  '  I  'm 
afraid  you  must  sit  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  for  that ! ' 
When  we  were  right,  he  would  say,  as  if  he  were  pleased  : 
'You've  been  taught,"  or  'it  does  you  credit  I""  very 
rarely :  '  If  you  can  make  out  that  for  yourself,  you 
needn't  come  up  to  Hampstead.'  Then  we  were  very 
happy  when  we  went  down  the  hill  to  the  station,  how- 
ever cold  it  might  be.  And  the  next  week  we  would  be 
there    on   the    stroke    of  the    clock.  — '  What    feverish 

punctuality  ! '    M ,  who  came  all  the  way  from  Eton, 

occasionally  took  a  hansom,  but  she  always  dismissed  it 
a  few  doors  off,  for  fear  there  should  be  comments  on 
the  luxuriousness  of  the  habit.  The  first  thing  that  we 
saw  on  entering  the  hall  was  a  water-colour  sketch  of 
the  Piraeus.  Terrible  accounts  of  fires,  cut  out  from  the 
newspapers,  were  stuck  up  all  about,  as  a  warning  to  the 
servants  not  to  be  careless.  The  dining-room  was  used 
as  a  study.  As  Spring  came  on,  a  budding  elm-tree 
outside  made  it  pleasant ;  and  there  was  always  a  bird 
in  a  cage,  and  sometimes  a  blue  kitten,  who  distracted 
our  minds.  I  do  not  know  that  Mr.  Cory  was  so  fond 
of  the  kitten,  but  he  was  very  fond  of  the  bird.  '  He 's 
happy.     He  does  not  know  that  he  will  die.'] 

..."  The  Imperative  is  the  root  of  all  verbs.  A  baby 
uses  first  an  Interjection,  then  an  Imperative.  Its  '  Da ' 
always  means  '  give  it  to  me.'  Reduplication  is  simply 
stuttering.  It  is  most  evident  in  the  Imperative  because 
that  is  the  most  impatient  mood.  The  secret  of  con- 
versation is  the  comparison  of  notes  and  not  strife.  It 
is  waste  of  time  to  finish  our  sentences ;  we  should  suggest 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLL\M  CORY      297 

by  them,  as  when  we  (|Uote,  or  say  the  first  words  of  a 
Psalm.     We  make  too  many  bow-wow  speeches. 

elptovela  —  originally  the  dissembling  of  oie^s  own 
powers. 

Xarpda  is  the  higher  form  of  6pr]aKeia,  that  '  pure 
religion  and  undefiled'  of  which  St.  James  speaks.  Some 
object  to  the  use  of  dprjcrKeia  in  that  verse ;  others  like 
it.  How  great  must  the  Christian  religion  be,  if  the 
mere  dprjaKela,  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the 
Xarpela,  is  this  ! 

The  Tlieaetetus  always  seems  to  me  the  great  example 
of  the  clumsiness  of  your  true  hero-worshipper — the 
donkey  playing  at  being  a  la])-dog,  eh  ? — what  Jesse 
Ceilings  is  to  Chamberlain.  Two  of  Socrates'  dearest 
friends — Simmias  and  Cebes — were  Tiiebans.  Interesting, 
because  they  must  have  overcome  their  national  hatred 
to  learn  of  him.  The  Spartans  fought  the  Athenians 
like  gentlemen,  but  the  Tiiebans  fought  them  like  wild 
beasts.  There  was  a  pretty  poem  by  Edwin  Arnold 
about  a  young  man  of  Megara.  I  made  it  into  an 
exercise." 

[Later  on,  Mr.  Cory  gave  it  to  me.  Here  it  is,  just  as 
he  tore  it  out.  But  it  was  far  more  beautiful  as  he  told 
it,  his  voice  breaking.] 

EXERCISE    LXXXV 

Juvenis  Megarensis 

There  was  iiear  Athens  a  town  called  Megara.  The 
nearer  they  are  the  more  do  cities  quarrel.  Tiie  enmity 
between  the  Athenians  and  Megarians  was  for  some  years 
so  great  that,  if  any  Megarian  came  across  the  frontier, 
he  was  put  to  death  by  the  Athenians. 

A  few  days  after  the  war  between  these  cities  began, 


298  NOTES  OF  THE 

Socrates  was  sitting  at  night  on  the  bank  of  the  Ilissus, 
near  the  plane  which  used  to  give  him  shade  by  day. 
Hearing  a  noise  he  raised  his  head,  breaking  off  his 
meditation.  Then  he  saw  a  lad  stretched  before  his 
feet,  panting.  He  recognised  a  pupil  called  Apodemus 
of  Megara.  The  lad  said,  '  Oh,  master,  be  quick ;  con- 
verse with  me;  tell  me  what  you  did  not  plainly  tell 
when  you  talked  with  the  others.  The  watchmen  of 
your  people  are  pursuing  me ;  the  laws  of  your  people 
condemn  me  to  death  for  daring  to  come  hither.  Teach 
me  what  you  know  about  the  soul  of  man.' 

Then  did  the  master  clear  up  that  which  he  had  left 
doubtful  about  the  second  life. 

The  moon  broke  through  the  clouds,  and  when  the 
light  was  shed  on  the  bank,  Socrates  saw  Apodemus 
pressing  his  side  with  his  hand,  and  blood  flowing 
through  his  fingers.     The  watchmen  came  up  too  late. 

[There  followed  a  tamer  tale  of  enthusiasm  for 
knowledge. — En.] 

..."  A  pretty  little  bit  of  English  History — how  the 
peasants  near  Cambridge  turned  out  to  resist  the  build- 
ing of  an  anatomical  Museum  and  Whewell  sallied  forth 
against  them  at  the  head  of  the  Undergraduates. 

Banishment  is  not  known  to  English  law.  Lord 
Durham  was  told  he  had  made  a  great  mistake,  because 
he  banished  a  man  from  Canada  to  Bermuda. 

The  precedent  for  Socrates''  case  is  that  of  Diagoras, 
the  Melian,  who  suffered  as  a  (nrfkifr}^}  He  is  supposed 
to  have  been  a  very  innocent  person,  by  no  means  an 
atheist.     They  were  mistaken  in  their  heat. 

We  have  three  investigations  in  England — before  the 
jMagistrate,  the  Grand  Jury  and  the  Pett>'  Jury.  All 
^  i.e.  posted  as  infamous. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       299 

that  is  more  important  in  politics  than  in  criminal 
matters,  because  people  get  excited  over  politics  and 
condemn  straight  oft".  See  S.  T.  Coleridge's  Piccolomini. 
The  Athenians,  with  their  great  and  beautiful  freedom, 
did  not  always  wait  to  wash  a  thought  in  many  waters — 
in  other  words,  to  read  the  bill  twice — before  they  voted. 
They  voted  too  quickly,  but  in  the  great  historic  instance, 
when,  in  a  tit  of  anger,  they  had  voted  a  general  massacre 
of  the  people  of  Mitylenc,  they  changed  their  minds  and 
repented.  There  is  nothing  in  Grecian  History  like  the 
history  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries.  I 
do  not  know  whether  you  will  agree  with  me,  but  I  think 
the  thirty  tyrants  were  worse  than  Robespierre  and  the 
Terrorists,  for  they  were  not  afraid  of  each  other  and 
they  had  the  Spartans  to  back  them  up.  They  had  been 
brutalized  by  the  long  war.  The  early  plays  of  Aristo- 
phanes (The  Achartiians,  etc.)  are  gay  and  mirthful,  but 
we  can  trace  in  their  increasing  bitterness  the  hardening 
of  heart  of  the  people.  The  last  three — with  female  names 
— are  scarcely  read  now.  In  The  Acharnians  he  glorified 
his  BijfMO'i,  his  parish,  as  Sophocles  glorified  his  in  the 
Oedipus  Coloneus.  A  man  cared  more  about  his  hrjfio^ 
than  his  ^vX-q  or  trihe.  There  were  about  one  hundred 
and  sixty  (Smith  says  one  hundred  and  ninety)  hrjixoi. 
There  were  originally  ten  tribes,  but  two  more  were 
added  after  the  Macedonian  Conquest,  when  the  popula- 
tion increased  to  500,000 — which  is  still  under  that  of  an 
English  county. 

Democracy  is  abolition  of  privilege,  equality  of  citizens. 
It  is  opposed  to  Oligarchy,  not  to  Aristocracy,  which 
may  perfectly  co-exist  with  it.  Pericles  was  picked  out 
for  thirty  years  by  the  will  of  the  people.  '  Justum  ac 
tenacem,  etc'     This  was  quoted  by  John  de  Witt  upon 


300  NOTES  OF  THE 

the  rack  ;  it  is  therefore  sacred  to  all  politicians.  Grote 
was  the  first  man  who  explained  constitutional  morality. 
Young  men  used  to  be  sent  to  Edinburgh,  to  Dugald 
Stewart,  for  wisdom  ;  he  taught  political  economy  and 
regenerated  it. 

There  is  a  contrast  between  Tlie  Maccabees  and  the 
last  struggle  of  Greek  heroism.  The  courage  which  is  at 
its  last  gasp  is  always  tremendous.  There  was  a  legend 
that  the  Athenians  were  seated  in  the  theatre  when  the 
news  of  Syracuse  arrived.  Strangers  were  present.  They 
had  all  lost  sons,  brothers,  and  friends  in  the  defeat,  but 
sooner  than  betray  their  grief  they  sat  the  whole  play 
out,  letting  the  fox  gnaw  them.  If  true,  it  beats  the 
Spartans.     A  grand  thing — the  national  pride  !  " 

May  26--- June  16,  1886 
Cnrro 

[On  May  26,  E.  S.,  M.  C,  and  I  began  the  Crito. 
Mrs.  Cory — 'Madam'  as  she  was  always  called  to 
us — was  giving  some  one  a  lesson  in  needlework  in 
the  next  room.  We  talked  about  the  Athenian 
maidens,  the  ipyaartvaL,  the  way  they  spent  their 
time  weaving  the  TreVXo?  of  Athene  for  the  festival 
of  IlavaO^jvata — some  standing  at  their  looms,  some 
telling  stories  to  the  rest.] 

.  .  .  "There  was  one  of  them — a -delightful  girl — her 
epitaph  says :  '  She  was  a  delightful  companion  at  xcool- 
work,  and  always  chattering.^ 

The  very  beginning  of  the  Crito — '  Is  it  not  yet  early  ?  ' 
— is  a  stroke  of  art ;  it  shows  us  that  Socrates  was  not 
agitated,  that  he  slept  perfectly  well.       It  was  "opdpo^ 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       301 

^adv<i  when  Crito  came  to  the  prison,  deep  dawn — 
literally  deep  hvilight — the  beautiful  time  when  the  birds 
are  singing  and  the  sky  is  not  yet  clear.  Word- 
mongering  boys  were  misled  by  the  classics  to  credit 
the  hen-birds  with  song,  because  in  Latin  they  were 
■philomela  and  alanda,  etc.  I  was  prohibited  by  my  sight 
from  being  a  close  observer  of  Nature. 

'  To-morrow,  Socrates,  you  must  end  your  life,"*  says 
Crito.  That  he  needn't  have  said  ;  I  think  it  shows  a 
little  want  of  taste.  The  Italians,  I  believe,  are  famous 
for  avoiding  any  allusion  to  the  ugly  event. 

Morning  dreams  have  a  certain  horrible  reality,  because 
we  wake  directly  after.  Cicero  refers  to  this  in  his 
Essay  on  Divination. 

In  the  Crito  the  arrangement  of  sentences  is  not 
merely  grammatical,  but  musical.  Lysias — Plato's  con- 
temporary— has  none  of  that  life,  sparkle,  rattle.  Greek 
prose  generally  is  disappointing.  Except  Herodotus,  no 
prose  author,  after  Plato,  gives  me  much  pleasure. 
Demosthenes  does  now  and  then — but  more  from  the 
downright  character  of  the  man  himself  which  shines 
through.     After  him,  Thucydides. 

There  ai'e  numbers  of  Greek  words  beginning  with  crvv. 
If  you  try  to  write  English,  you  are  haunted  by  woids 
beginning  with  con. 

The  Greeks  expect  you  to  be  on  your  mettle  when 
you  read  their  books :  op^avia  is  the  story  of  an 
orphan.^  One  of  the  few  discoveries  I  have  made  in 
the  course  of  my  long  and  weary  life  is,  that  it  does 
not  mean  orphanhood.  (pXvapCa — a  kind  of  plausible 
intellectual  humbug,  talked  not  by  a  stupid  but  by  a 
silly  man. 

^  He  seems  to  be  alluding  to  Plat.  CriL,  45  D. 


302  NOTES  OF  THE 

The  Greeks  looked  on  Very  middling !  (fieTpKOTara) 
as  a  good  expression  ;  we  think  it  a  bad  one.  .   ,   . 

Philosophers  must  have  new  words,  but  it*  there  were 
not  absolute  anarchy  in  this  country,  they  would  submit 
them  to  a  scholar — keep  out  of  the  vile  Greek  words  at 
which  the  Greeks  would  have  shuddered.  Their  language 
is  a  perfect  magazine.  The  Romans  went  to  it  just  as 
we  do.  In  the  days  of  Diocletian — about  310 — they 
delighted  in  Greek  terms. 

Greeks  and  Romans  were  particularly  fond  of  such 
expressions  as  walking  through  a  thing,  when  they  meant 
narration.     Discourse  is  running  to  and  fro.  .  .  . 

Going  to  the  Olympian  Games  would  be  a  deoypla,  some 
religion  in  it,  but  chiefly  fun  and  curiosity.  Horace  tells 
you  about  the  Corybantes;  all  his  cooked-up  enthusiasm 
does  not  move  the  reader  in  the  least.  The  Athenians 
would  not  often  have  such  spectacles.  They  were  too 
licentious.  Cybele's  was  a  rowdy  religion.  Athene"'s  was 
the  respectable  one. 

The  Roman  rulers  had  a  horror  of  these  things.  People 
who  joined  in  such  worship  were  severely  punished. 
There  was  an  attempt  to  stop  it  in  the  second  Punic 
War.  All  this  explains  the  persecution  of  the  Christians, 
not  by  a  Nero  but  by  such  a  man  as  Marcus  Aurelius — 
a  conscientious  man — a  reader  of  Plato.  They  thought 
Christianity  would  destroy  family  life  and  all  the 
disciplina  Romana.  Pliny — about  eighty  years  after 
Christ  and  seventy  before  Marcus  .Aurelius — said  the 
Christians  were  good,  orderly  people,  but  their  worship  was 
conducted  at  night,  and  this  drew  suspicion  upon  them. 

'Why  do  you  care  so  much  about  the  world's  opinion  ? ' 
Socrates  says  to  Crito.  '  You  must  weigh  people,  not 
number  them." 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY      303 

They  do  not  talk  as  we  do  of  honour  and  conscience. 
Al8(i)<i  is  the  word  expressing  the  great  Greek  quality 
which  is  the  foundation  of  honour ;  and  the  other  thing 
which  restrains  you  (e.g.  keeps  you  from  throwing  a 
stone  too  hard  lest  it  rebound  on  you)  is  Nemesis, 
retnbution.  They  are  not  exactly  moral  ideas,  but 
sentiments  of  the  mind,  from  which  moral  ideas  arise. 
Read  Mallock's  beautiful  translation  of  the  chorus  from 
the  H'lppohjtus  in  The  New  Republic. 

What  we  look  upon  as  the  most  absolute  law  of  all, 
the  Greeks  looked  upon  as  anarchy.  Tyranny  was  to 
them  a  human  earthquake.  This  feeling  was  revived  in 
France.  Amyofs  Plutarch — Clement  Marofs  Psalms — 
were  the  rage.  Philippe  de  la  Noue  was  that  sort  of 
character.  Cardinal  de  Retz  said  that  our  Montrose 
was  like  one  of  Plutarch's  heroes.  Catherine  of  Russia 
is  absolute  power  tempered  by  assassination  and 
epigrams. 

'  You  deliberately  stuck  to  Athens  as  a  limpet 
sticks  to  a  rock,'  Socrates  says  to  himself.  Ifs  very 
amusing  that  he  should  be  chaffing  himself  here  about 
his  stay-at-home  ways — just  at  the  end  of  his  life, 
too.  There  is  a  jolly  Greek  proverb:  AeiXr]  ivl  rrrvd/jiii/c 
^€cS(o — ifs  a  poor  thing  to  spare  the  dregs  of  a  cash. 
This  is  Tennyson's  Uhjsses.  That 's  one  of  the  poems  that 
do  affect  character — not  like  those  of  the  confectionery 
school.  Socrates  might  have  argued  too  that  it  would 
be  wretched  for  his  disciples  to  see  him  dependent  on 
casual  kindness  and  stripped  of  all  his  dignity.  Dying, 
he  left  them  an  honoured  name.  He  could  not  have 
escaped." 


304  NOTES  OF  THE 


J^me  \6—July  28  and  October  Q— December  22,  1886 

Phaedo 

"  Phaedo  says  of  those  who  were  with  Socrates  on  this 
last  day  of  his  life,  that  they  sometimes  laughed,  some- 
times wept. 

It  seems  strange  that  they  should  have  laughed. 
I^aughing  at  a  man  and  laughing  with  him  are  very 
different  actions.  The  laugh  of  sympathy  and  enjoy- 
ment is  a  moral  thing;  it  saves  men  from  going  mad. 
English  men  laugh  more  than  Greek  ;  if  two  or  three  of 
them  are  together  and  they  do  not,  it 's  a  sure  sign  that 
something  is  wrong.  Women  are  not  like  this ;  Homer 
says  of  one  that  she  laughed  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  A 
hard  laugh  is  very  horrible.  It  was  one  of  the  things 
that  troubled  me  most  at  Eton,  to  hear  the  boys  laughing 
in  that  way.  .  . 

Later  on,  the  word  ein'yeKdaa'i  is  used  of  Cebes.  It 
may  mean  smile.  I'm  inclined  to  think  this  gentleman 
didn't  laugh.  I'd  rather  he  didn't.  A  laugh  would 
have  been  rather  a  discord,  unless  it  was  a  very  low, 
soft  ripple. 

Xanthippe  beat  her  breast  for  sorrow.  What  made 
people  do  that.^  They  say  a  child  will  beat  a  chair 
against  which  it  has  hurt  itself.  I  don't  know.  I  never 
saw  it.  Animals  don't  do  that  kind  of  thing.  I  once 
tried  to  get  a  dog  out  of  a  trap  that  had  hurt  it,  and 
it  bit  my  hand.  There  is  a  new  theory  that  burnt 
moths  do  not  suffer.  It's  more  like  the  devil  than 
anything  that  I  know — the  botheration  of  a  possessed 
moth. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       305 

It  is  amusing  that  Socrates  should  have  had  the  child 
brought  to  him  in  prison — and  he  doesn't  seem  to  have 
had  much  feeling  for  it. 

He  is  one  of  those  rare  people  who  enjoy  youth  for  its 
own  sake,  its  freshness  and  flexibility,  not  for  the  sake 
of  its  flattery.  We  have  nothing  like  it.  Dr.  Johnson 
and  S.  T.  Coleridge  were  poor  copies.  Bennet  Langton 
flattered,  and  none  of  the  young  men  who  came  up  to 
Highgate  talked  much  themselves.  ,  . 

iraaa  ■^V)(r)  a6dvaro<i — All  soul  is  indestructible,  says 
Phaedrus.  Plato  would  not  have  denied  the  immortality 
of  animals  and  plants.  It  is  impossible  to  mark  off'  man 
from  the  rest.  There  is  no  break  anywhere,  though  there 
may  be,  and  are,  gaps  in  the  record .  The  power  of  motion, 
as  a  test  for  distinguishing  animals  from  vegetables,  has 
been  proved  useless.  The  sum  of  spirit  is  constant ;  that 
the  sum  of  matter  was  constant  had  been  proved  before 
Plato.  Pre-existetice — lem-ning  is  recollection — it's  the 
prettiest  fantastic  notion,  but  he  doesn't  make  much  of 
it.  We  say  '  Self-evident,'  where  he  says  all  this.  When 
a  child  says  to  you, '  Silly — to  tell  me  that,'  it  is  self- 
evident  to  him  that  two  and  two  make  four;  but  it  is 
extremely  difficult  to  sec  how  and  when  the  knowledge 
comes.  I  suppose  no  one  ever  watclied  a  child  more 
closely  than  I  did  ray  little  man  for  the  first  three 
years  of  his  life,  yet  I  could  not  find  out  when  these 
things  began  to  dawn  upon  him.  Questioning  must 
be  fair,  of  course — XIXaTroi/i/cw?  not  /S&)/io\o;i^&)9. 

As  Olympiodorus  says.  You  must  not  try  to  catch  your 
victim  out,  like  the  interrogator  of  that  unfortunate 
man  who,  when  asked  whether  he  did  not  admit  that 
two  and  two  make  four,  at  length  replied  in  desperation, 
'  Not  till  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  infer  from  it.' 
u 


306  NOTES  OF  THE 

Diagrams  were  originally  things  that  were  drawn 
across  on  a  table  of  sand.  The  inconvenience  of  it  was 
that  you  could  not  take  the  sand-table  with  you.  '  I 
will  bring  you  this  man  from  the  dust  and  the  little 
stick,'  says  Cicero.  A  pidvere  is  not  J'ro7n  the  dead,  as 
one  would  imagine,  but  from  the  sayid-tabk,  and  the 
little  stick  was  the  stick  with  which  diagrams  were  drawn. 
This  man  is  Archimedes,  whose  tomb  Cicero  discovered 
and  identified  by  means  of  the  figures  of  a  sphere  and 
cylinder^  on  it — an  antiquarian  find  which  greatly 
delighted  him.  Archimedes  lived  two  hundred  years 
after  Socrates,  in  the  sunset  of  the  Athenian  glory. 

Aristotle,  the  grandson  of  Socrates,  by  intellect,  was 
taught  by  Plato,  and  taught  Alexander.  Demosthenes 
was  the  last  Greek  who  enjoyed  freedom.  Rome  over- 
threw the  brutes  of  Macedonians,  but  in  the  end  she 
had  to  overthrow  Greece  herself.  Seventy  years  after 
the  death  of  Archimedes,  Aemilius,  the  second  Africanus, 
(juoted  Homer  at  the  fall  of  Carthage.  But  Rome 
treated  Greece  as  a  man  treats  a  lady,  and  '  Conquered 
Greece  conquered  Rome,'  says  Horace.  .  .  .  Antisthenes 
was  the  original  founder  of  the  Stoics.  "Whatever  earnest- 
ness there  was  in  him  survived  in  them.  They  influenced 
the  Roman  character  and  law.  Wonderful — so  strong  a 
people  receiving  so  much  from  those  they  overcame  !  The 
Greeks  admired  the  Romans  too.  The  Epicureans  lay 
alongside  the  Stoics.  Wherever  Calvinism  has  been, 
there  the  country  has  strengtiieneq.  The  Greek  Stoic 
books  have  all  perished,  happily  for  us.  Epicurus  was 
the  favourite  philosopher  of  gentlemen  .  .  .  Athens  has 
the  full  credit  of  being  the  mother  of  the  Stoics.  They 
were  the  Church — the  Franciscans,  so  to  speak — the 
^  Cic.  Tusc.  23  and  64. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WHJJAM  CORY       J^07 

solid  result  of  Platonisin.  Their  central  notion  was 
Virtue,  not  the  immortality  of  the  Soul,  etc.  The  "^roa 
YloiKiXi}  {painted  Lo^-ghi — not  Torch)  was  their  place  of 
meeting,  where  they  walked  up  and  down  talking,  as  we 
did  in  the  cloisters  at  Cambridge  when  it  rained.  Zeno 
studied  Socrates  from  the  books  which  his  father  brought 
him  back,  when  he  went  to  trade  with  Athens.  Zeno 
and  Sphoerus  connect  Socrates  with  Cleomenes,  240  «.c. 
else  you  can't  account  for  the  Spartan  getting  those  high 
notions.  Cleomenes,  and  his  brother,  Agis,  were  some- 
thing like  the  Gracchi  at  Rome,  120  b.c.  Agis  persuaded 
the  people  to  restore  the  Spartan  monarchy,  to  throw  off' 
the  authority  of  the  Ephors.  It  was  like  the  restoration 
of  the  Mikado  in  Japan.  He  appealed  to  the  good  old 
mythical  laws  of  Lycurgus — which  probably  never  existed 
— tis,  in  after  times,  Englishmen  appealed  to  the  Witan 
— to  the  law  of  Edward  the  Confessor — to  the  Parliament 
of  Simon  de  Montfort.  Agis  was  a  George — a  Socialist — 
a  retrograding  transcendentalist  like  the  Emperor  Julian 
and  the  late  King  of  Prussia  (the  brother  of  the  present 
man).  Levelling  up  was  his  plan.  All  ardent  reformers 
arc  on  the  edge  of  anarchy  at  any  time.  They  wish  the 
world  to  be  free — yet  their  plans  could  only  be  carried 
out  by  our  giving  up  our  freedom.  He  was  hanged  with 
his  mother  and  his  grandmother.  (Women  were  great 
at  Sparta;  they  had  immense  property.)  It  reminds  one 
of  the  old  saying  :  '  The  blood  of  the  martyrs  is  the  seed 
of  the  Church."' 

Pythagoras  and  his  disciples  anticipated  Christ;  they 
were  persecuted  after  Pythagoras's  death.  Marcus 
Aurelius  (whose  real  name  was  Antoninus)  was  the 
latest  of  the  Stoics — '  the  last  Rose  of  summer.'  He 
gives  thanks  for  his  teachers — most  of  all  for  his  mother, 


308  NOTES  OF  THE 

who  was  a  religious  woman.  His  son,  Commodus,  was 
a  wretch,  and  the  worst  of  it  Avas,  the  poor  father  knew 
it,  and  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  disinherit  him. 
But  he  thought  a  bad  successor  would  be  better  than 
a  disputed  succession.  He  had  the  honour  of  causing 
the  death  of  some  of  the  sweetest  people  who  ever  lived 
— the  Lyons  Martyrs,  Blandina,  etc.  The  link  in  the 
catena  connecting  him  with  the  Stoics  is  Epictetus, 
whose  book — dry  reading  now — influenced  him  more 
than  anything  else. 

The  '  spiritual  man ''  of  St.  Paul  is  Plato's  philosopher. 
Unworldliness  is  philosophy. 

The  Greeks  did  not  get  beyond  Panhellenic  patriotism. 
'  Our  glory  is  that  we  have  spent  more  money  for  all  the 
Greeks  put  together  than  any  State  ever  spent  for  itself.' 
What  Demosthenes  means  by  'glory''  is  the  keeping  off 
of  the  barbarians  on  behalf  of  all  the  Greeks.  Lucretius 
says  the  right  thing  is  to  pity  every  one  who  is  weak. 
Thafs  the  outside  of  what  you  can  get  one  hundred 
years  before  Lucan.  .  . 

Epicurus,  too,  was  a  good  soul  ;  invented  pleasure 
gardens — not  gin,  nor  brandy,  nor  anything  of  that  kind. 

Chillingworth,  the  Cudworth  School,  tried  to  revive 
Platonism  in  their  lives,  but  I  won't  undertake  to  say 
they  were  of  the  slightest  importance.  Any  one  who 
did  so  now  would  be  a  tepid  prig.  Darwin  and  Paraday 
were  the  two  philosophers  of  my  day;  Clerk  Maxwell 
was  too  odd. 

Malesherbes,  the  advocate  of  Louis  xvi.,  is  described 
as  '  fearing  nothing — hoping  nothing — interested  in 
everything  that  is  good.'  Nor  was  he  without  im- 
agination. After  the  trial,  he  found  the  king  very 
mournful. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  COllY       309 

Thk  Kixo. — "What  am  I  to  do  for  those  poor  clerks 
who  laboured  so  hard  for  me  ?  I  have  nothing  where- 
with to  reward  them." 

Mai.eshkkbes. — "  Emhrasscz-lcs  ! " 

If  you  want  to  find  something  that  looks  like  an  anti- 
cipation of  modern  thought — Keats,  Shelley,  Coleridge, 
etc. — read  the  Phacdrus.  You  can't  talk  of  the  soul  and 
the  body  as  if  they  were  flour  and  sugar ;  all  this  is  im- 
possible to  the  modern  mind.  When  a  man  like  Mr. 
Shorthouse  brings  out  Platonism  again,  as  if  it  could  still 
be  taught,  it 's  an  anachronism.  Plato's  soul  is  a  sort  of 
person — a  captive  woman. 

The  Fathers  of  the  Early  Church  delighted  in  such 
passages  of  the  Pliaedo  as  get  near  the  Manichaean  doc- 
trine of  the  evil  of  matter — Manes ;  asceticism  ;  the 
people  who  didn't  wash  and  stood  on  pillars. 

Note  the  difference  between  Plato  and  Wordsworth  in 
the  great  Ode,  One  says  that  all  our  life  we  are  recover- 
ing the  ideas  we  lost  at  our  birth  ;  one,  that  all  our  life 
we  are  losing  them. 

Faraday's  forces  would  have  delighted  Plato ;  they 
seem  to  be  something  like  his  ideas. 

Such  is  the  power  of  rhetoric  over  the  mind,  and  such 
the  charm  of  language,  that  men  cannot  free  themselves 
from  metaphors.  Doctors  icill  speak  of  '  Nature.'  Cebes' 
doctrine  runs  on  all  fours  with  the  modern  doctrine  of 
the  conservation  of  forces.  We  sayjbrce  where  we  used 
to  say  matter.  This  is  the  raft  on  which  we  are  floating 
now  ;  it  may  upset,  of  course. 

The  other  Dialogues  are  full  of  the  eristic  Sophists, 
etc.,  with  whom  Socrates  had  contended  all  his  life.  One 
charm  of  the  Phaedo  is,  that  there  's  so  little  hostility  in 
it.     He  just  refers  to  them,  but  very  tenderly. 


310  NOTES  OF  THE 

Except  now  and  then  in  a  dream,  tliinking  is  not 
possible  for  any  length  of  time  without  words,  ^  His 
intellect  is  in  a  state  of  purity,'  says  Plato — and  the 
word  means  literally,  tested  by  the  sun.  The  Greeks  had 
a  fantastic  notion  that  the  sun  exposed  everything, 
which  we  should  call  a  fallacy  of  observation.  The  sun 
does  not  show  the  purity  of  a  thing — it  corrupts  it. 
Deianeira  found  out  the  poisoned  shirt  by  exposing  it  to 
the  sun.  True  chemistry  is  only  110  years  old.  It 
began  with  Cavendish,  Priestley,  Lavoisier,  There  is  a 
quarrel  between  France  and  England  as  to  the  first 
discoverer  of  water. 

yeveai^  does  not  represent  our  idea  of  creation  as  dis- 
tinct from  making:,  indeed  they  seem  to  have  had  no 
word  for  it.  Theologians  would  tell  you  that  no  one 
but  Jehovah  had  a  right  to  say  /  avi. 

It  is  a  pitiable  thing  to  think  that  the  old  Athenians 
had  no  glass  to  look  through.  Strange,  that  in  Greek 
books  there  should  be  no  reference  to  the  stars  as  an 
image  of  stability !  To  the  Greeks  they  were  merely 
decors  (Zwingli  seems  to  have  been  the  first  person  who 
noticed  them  poetically.  There  is  not  much  of  it  even 
in  Milton  ;  he  decorates  with  the  Pleiades.)  They  glorify 
the  al67]p,  almost  worship  it.  The  drjp  would  be  within 
Ruskin's  firmament  roof.  There  was  nothing  beyond. 
.  .  .  Nonsense  about  vaults  and  '  heaven-pointing  spires' ; 
they  point  down.  But  I  fancy  the  ancients  really  did 
look  upon  the  sky  as  a  sublime  dish-cover.  At  first  '  the 
harmony  of  the  spheres'  meant  the  distances  between 
them ;  then,  from  a  misunderstanding  of  the  word  '  har- 
mony,' people  thought  they  made  a  jolly  noise  as  they 
went  round. 

It  is  piteous  to  think  that  Socrates  wasn't  up  to  what 


TAIJLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       311 

the  meanest  child  knows  now  about  the  formation  of  the 
leaf  and  the  like.  He  had  never  seen  through  a  micro- 
scope. What  he  ought  to  have  done  is  this.  He  should 
have  gone  down  on  his  knees  and  looked  at  a  toadstool, 
or  gone  to  Egypt  and  watched  a  pumpkin  all  day  long, 
as  he  wouldn't  have  minded  doing  in  his  rigidity.  I 
have  no  patience  with  a  man  Avho  ties  such  knots  as  he 
does  sometimes.  Surely  you  may  see  one  horse  that  is 
bigger  than  another  and  say  so,  without  going  home  and 
making  yourself  unhappy  about  it. 

Plato  speaks  about  the  mummies  of  Egypt.  How  did 
he  come  to  know  about  them  ?  Had  he  been  talking  to 
some  traveller  ?  He  employs  the  same  word  that  is  used 
for  pickling  ;  embalm  is  certainly  more  handsome.  He 
wrote  for  clever  people.  Wonderful,  how  they  ever  made 
out  those  old  manuscripts — all  written  in  one  line.  Iso- 
crates  says  that  Spartans  may  have  a  book,  if  they 
can  find  anybody  to  read  it  to  them ;  that  is  the 
Athenian  Pharisee  sneering  at  the  Lacedaemonian  publi- 
can. Plato  must  have  looked  over  and  corrected  his 
manuscript.  Strange,  that  the  ancients  should  have 
stopped  just  on  the  brink  of  the  great  discovery  of  print- 
ing, when  they  were  so  fond  of  seals  !  Perhaps  they  liked 
their  writing,  or  thought  it  a  good  occupation  for  their 
slaves.  We  know  exactly  how  books  were  published  in 
Rome.  Some  one  read  aloud,  and  600  slaves  wrote  it 
down.  Martial's  Epigrams  were  sold  for  sixpence  a 
copy. 

.  .  .  Each  great  author  is  a  new  literary  sense.  People 
cannot  conjecture  what  it  is  like,  nor  how  big  it  is. 
Every  book  should  be  a  key  to  reading  other  books. 
Phaedo  has  the  perfection  of  urbanity  of  style,  as  Mat- 
thew Arnold  would  say.     Again,  there  is  the  Greek  taste 


312  NOTES  OF  THE 

for  draggle-tail — Baxter-ing — '  the  last  words  of  Mr. 
Baxter  ! '  Plato  never  finishes  the  sentence  where  we 
should.  Perhaps  it  soothed  the  mind.  Oddly  enough, 
those  who  do  finish  where  we  should — Lysias  and  Iso- 
crates — are  the  very  authors  who  bore  us  most  in  Greek. 

The  arrangement  of  words  is  beautiful.  Even  Tenny- 
son, who  knows  more  about  it  than  any  one,  has  to  itali- 
cise now  and  then,  to  give  the  right  emphasis.   .  .  . 

It  is  by  persisting  in  discovering  antecedents  that  we 
shall  be  happy  in  future  life — if  we  continue  reading 
Plato.  .   .   . 

Infinite  trouble  have  I  taken,  explaining  the  uses  of 
the  word  av  to  generations — now  hoary-headed  dotards, 
most  of  them,  who  know  no  Greek  at  all. 

Having  learnt  a  little  Greek,  as  you  have  now — about 
twopence-halfpenny  worth — you  might  read  Chrysostom 
and  the  New  Testament.  Any  one  who  takes  an  interest 
in  going  to  church  ought  to." 

[I  think  he  was  rather  surprised  to  hear  that  we  gene- 
rally did  read  the  New  Testament  every  day.  He  said 
he  had  tried  Revelation  with  some  boys  ;  found  it  impos- 
sible— too  barbarous.  We  were  warned  against  popular 
error — the  Constantinople  creed — vulgarly  called  the 
Nicene.] 

''^  Simon  means  snub-nosed.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
I  could  trace  a  dislike  of  his  own  name  in  St.  Paul's 
writings.     Paulus  Aemilius  glorified  it  for  the  Romans. 

KciOapfxa  is  a  victim  slain  for  a  jzistijication.  At  the 
QapyijXia,  or  feast  of  Apollo  and  Artemis,  the  most 
worthless  criminals  were  beaten  down  to  the  shore  with 
fig-sticks,  to  show  their  vileness,  and  thrown  into  the 
sea.  So,  too,  there  were  human  sacrifices  at  Rome,  though 
Macaulav  could  not  believe  it. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       313 

Generally,  the  Greeks  had  little  idea  of  mental  uncer- 
tainty. There  is  a  little  hit  of  Homer— very  unlike  the 
rest  of  him— about  Castor  and  Tollux — that  used  to 
haunt  me  as  a  boy.     It  describes  the  feeling. 

'  This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind,'  as  Tenny- 
son savs.  So  young  Neoptolenuis  in  the  PMloctdes 
hesitates  whether  to  behave  shabbily — as  ITlysses  bids 
him — or  no. 

'  Take  to  the  oars  when  you  can't  manage  the  sails  ! ' 
says  Menander.  We  have  lost  him  and  we  mourn  for 
Menander.  He  produced  on  the  Romans  the  same  effect 
as  France  on  the  English  in  Charles  ii.'s  time. 

Plato  speaks  of  the  nightingale,  the  swallow,  the  hoopoe, 
as  singing-birds.  There  were  nightingales  in  a  grove  near 
Athens.  One  would  not  naturally  select  the  swallow  for 
its  singing;  most  likely  they  noticed  the  way  it  twittered 
before  it  left  for  tiie  winter.  All  the  Athenians  loved  it, 
for  it  brought  them  news  that  the  winter  was  over,  and 
they  could  change  their  bread  and  figs  for  fresh  green 
vegetables  and  have  nettles  for  dinner.  The  boys  used 
to  go  from  house  to  house  singing  the  Swallow  Song. 
The  hoopoe  is  the  King  of  Birds  in  Aristophanes. 

There  is  an  aviary  in  the  Theaetctus.  The  birds  are 
the  ideas.  You  have  them  in  the  cage  in  your  possession, 
but  you  must  put  your  hand  in  if  you  want  to  get 
hold  of  them. 

He  says  the  brain  and  the  spinal  marrow  form  the 
medium  through  which  the  soul  acts  on  the  body. 
Odd,  the  way  memory  is  roused  in  a  dream  by  touch  ! 

In  the  Laxvs  man  is  called  '  the  plaything  of  the  gods.' 
Rather  painful — a  thing  for  a  bitter  old  man  to  say. 

.  .  .  The  association  of  ideas  was  taught  by  Locke 
(time  of  Charles  ir.) — one  of  those  people  who  invented 


314  NOTES  OF  THE 

good  sense — the  second  great  teacher  of  the  Whigs  after 
Hooker  (time  of  Elizabeth).  Locke  was  supposed  to 
have  defeated  Filmer,  but  Filmer's  ideas  have  come  up 
again  lately.  John  Morley  in  his  Life  of  Romsemi  is 
nearer  Filmer  than  Locke. 

...  Be  careful  not  to  interchange  words  that  appear 
to  be  synonymous.  One  of  the  Christian  Socialists,  who 
prided  themselves  on  being  loose  thinkers,  wrote  a 
pamphlet  arguing  that  profit  was  wrong,  because  profit 
and  advantage  were  the  same  thing,  and  it  was  wrong 
to  take  advantage  of  another !  I  only  saw  Mansfield  ^ 
once,  but  I  could  never  forget  it.  '  Happy  were  those 
who  knew  him  in  this  life — happy  will  those  be  who 
know  him  in  the  next ! ''  said  Kingsley. 

In  the  Meno,  virtue  is  said  to  come  deia  fioipa,  hy  a 
divine  institution.  I  thought  about  it  for  many  years. 
Then  I  appealed  to  a  philosopher,  who  confirmed  me 
when  I  said  that  virtue  was  a  question  of  degree.  The 
philosophical  Pharisee  is  bad.  '  I  thank  God  that  I  am 
not  as  those  other  politicians  are.'  No  feeling  for  the 
poor  dear  people  who  give  themselves  up  for  the  public 
good  !  I  prefer  Henry  iv.  to  many  Platos.  There  were 
two  attempts  to  assassinate  him  after  his  change  of 
religion.  The  first  man  only  succeeded  in  wounding 
him  on  the  lips.  His  Protestant  friend,  d'Aubigny, 
said  to  him,  '  Sire,  you  have  denied  your  God  with  your 
lips,  and  He  has  smitten  you  on  your  lips.  When  you 
deny  Him  with  your  heart,  He  will  smite  you  through 
your  heart.'     Ravaillac  did. 

Landor  wrote  a  Dialogue  between  Diogenes  and  Plato. 
I  never  liked  Landor  much.  He  expatriated  himself; 
no  man  should  do  that  without  the  strongest  reason.  .  .  . 
1  [Charles  Blackford  Mansfield  (1819-1855).] 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       31. 5 

apfivXi)  is  a  strong,  clumsy  boot ;  Kodopvo^,  bii.skhi, 
fitted  eithei-  foot.  But  the  Greeks  were  not  so  particular 
about  their  boots  as  they  were  about  their  helmets. 

Attire  is  a  word  of  excjuisite  charm  for  me  : 
'  And  ye  shall  walk  in  silk  attire. 

[The  talk  iiere  took  a  fresh  turn.  Mr.  ('ory  digressed 
into  poetry. — En.  ] 

"  You  know  Matthew  Arnold's  Scholar  Gipsy?  He'll 
be  remembered  by  that — and  Thyrsis — when  all  the  rest 
are  gone." 

[Then  before  we  knew  where  we  were,  he  took  us  back 
to  the  classics. — En.] 

"  The  Romans  had  no  good  word  for  smell ;  odorari 
comes  only  once  in  Horace. 

An  iiria-Ta.T'r]';  regulates  your  actions,  but  a  SecrTTor?;? 
can  buy  and  sell  you.  No  Greek  admitted  a  SecrTTOTT??, 
no  one  indeed,  except  a  slave.  Happily  we  have  kept 
the  meaning  of  that  word. 

i\7)6c,  iXaOi,  he  kind,  is  used  as  a  farewell  to  the  gods 
where  '^alpe,  be  happy,  or  eppoiao,  be  thou  strong!  is  used 
to  mortals.  Our  goodbye  is  God  be  with  you!  We  can't 
help  looking  ahead.  Everything  we  say  is  prospective, 
not  retrospective.  It  "s  one  of  the  most  curious  laws  of 
our  nature  apparently. 

In  Greece,  if  you  see  the  sun  set,  you  always  think  of 
'  Socrates.     So  you  do,  if  you  see  a  bit  of  green  grass ;  but 
I  did  not ;  nothing  but  green  in  the  distance — and  that 
was  blue. 

March  'A—July,  1887 

AKTIGOXK 

[The  lesson  began  with  a  discourse  upon  Iambics. — En.] 
..."  The  French  wrote  Alexandrines  with  no  caesura 


316  NOTES  OF  THE 

as  far  back  as  the  fourteenth  century.  Look  at  Bertrand 
du  Guesclin.  You  should  put  things  together  which 
run  parallel,  but  are  not  acquainted  with  each  other — 
that 's  the  amusing  thing  to  do  in  history.  Books  only 
give  you  things  which  are  connected.  Petrarch  lived 
at  the  same  time  as  Bertrand  du  Guesclin,  yet  there  is 
no  sense  of  monotony  in  him.  The  founders  of  the 
Royal  Society  were  at  work  in  CromwelTs  life- 
time.  .  .   . 

We  are  the  children  of  the  Romans  and  the  grand- 
children of  the  Greeks.  Of  course  it  is  crossed  in  us  by 
the  influence  of  the  Hebrew.  The  Greek  cadences  give 
us  the  keenest  pleasure — almost  more  than  our  own ; 
at  least  we  agree  more  about  them.  I  expect  I  should 
not  easily  find  any  one  in  London  who  would  agree  with 
me  that  the  most  beautiful  cadences  are  to  be  found  in 
The  Soldier s  Di-eam.  We  enjoy  our  pi-ose  more  than 
the  Greek,  grand  though  it  be.  Latin  prose  is  beautiful, 
but  too  cosmetic. 

The  Norman  scribes  spoilt  our  Anglo-Saxon  spelling 
for  ever — gave  us  an  inheritance  of  trouble. 

.  .  .  How  widely  different  is  the  French  taste  from  our 
own  !  Yet,  in  the  days  of  Edward  i.  and  Philip  the 
Fair,  England  and  France  were  gee-ing  like  two  horses 
in  an  omnibus.  They  read  the  same  books — trash  that 
nobody  can  get  through  now-a-days.  Their  lawyers  were 
strengthening  the  crown  in  the  same  way,  delighting  to 
show  that  they  were  sharper  than  the-  ecclesiastics.  The 
letters  of  Heloise,  the  nun,  to  Abelard  are  the  only  in- 
teresting thing  in  the  five  hundred  years  from  Boethius 
to  Petrarch.  The  only  book  of  the  Middle  Ages  which 
is  still  read  eagerly  and  spontaneously  is  Thomas  a 
Kempis.      The    works    of    Ubertino    and    others    were 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       317 

swallowed  up  by  it — it  was  an  Aaron"'s  rod.  I  know  that 
many  people  find  interest  and  pleasure  in  Dante.  I  do 
not.  I  read  him  from  a  sense  of  duty,  and  feel  virtuous 
afterwards.  I  have  lately  dragged  myself  through 
Paradise  Lost — thought  it  was  a  good  thing  to  do  on 
Sunday  afternoons.  Very  fine,  but  very  heavy.  Felt 
when  I  had  done 

What  a  good  boy  am  I  ! 

There  were  plums,  of  course." 

[And  so  back  to  the  play. — Ed.] 

What  a  fuss  at  the  beginning  of  the  W^atchman's 
speech!  All  this  means,  ^  Enter  Phylax  out  of  breath.'' 
The  Greeks  had  no  stage  directions,  so  they  were  obliged 
to  put  them  all  into  the  text,  which  led  to  every  kind  of 
niaiseric. 

i)  KaTel')(e  rov  vskvv  is  the  most  monstrous  enjauihonent 
I  ever  saw.  It  makes  me  think  that  Sophocles  was  very 
young  at  the  time,  and  didn^t  revise  for  a  second  edition. 
There  are  many  passages  in  Antigone  that  show  a  want 
of  art.  Sophocles  was  not  yet  master  of  his  tools.  He 
speaks  of  defxi^,  decree,  doom.  In  the  old  days  there  was 
no  distinction  between  legislation  and  Judicature.  With 
us,  judges  only  make  law  in  the  sense  of  making  the 
minor  premiss.  The  major  premiss  is — That  no  stealing 
is  lawful;  the  judge  says,  'The  pickpocket  has  stolen, 
and  therefore  he  must  go  to  prison.' 

Sophocles  was  chosen  to  lead  the  army  on  account  of 
Antigone.  As  a  boy  he  took  part  in  the  thanksgivings 
after  Salamis.  He  acted  Nausicaa — looked  handsome — 
threw  the  ball  so  charmingly  !  This  was  in  his  own  play. 
Antigom  is  very  rough — yet  he  had  written  many  plays 
before  he  won  the  prize  with  her.     Euripides  wrote  an 


318  NOTES  OF  THE 

Antigone-^  in  his  version  she  marries  Haenion.  Though 
there  is  nothing  perhaps  so  subhme  as  Aeschylus, 
Sophocles  was  a  far  better  playwright  than  either 
Aeschylus  or  Euripides.  Ladies  should  be  interested  in 
Antigone  and  Ismene,  because  they  are  the  forerunners 
of  Minna  and  Brenda — of  Caroline,  the  most  delightful 
of  all  heroines,  and  Shirley.  Antigone  is  an  ange 
farouche ;  she  never  uses  Vocatives  nor  speaks  to  Kreon 
by  a  title,  as  Ismene  does.  Ismene  is  an  amiable  creature  ; 
she  suddenly  plucks  up  her  spirit,  and  surprises  the  world 
by  running  her  neck  into  the  halter.  Nothing  is  more 
famous — nothing  has  been  more  fascinating  to  young  men 
— than  Antigone's  answer  to  Kreon.  It  was  so  when  I 
was  young.  Uncommonly  good  writing  just  there — 
pointed  and  brilliant  to  the  last  degree  ! 

Sophocles  was  a  contemporary  of  Pericles.  He  saw 
the  Parthenon  in  its  beauty — the  Propylaea — the  entrance. 
There  is  a  little  Temple  still  which  is  perfect  but  for  one 
Caryatid,  who  is  in  the  British  Museum.  When  you 
marry  the  Prime  Minister  you  can  have  her  sent  back. 
They  have  had  to  put  up  a  sham  one.  I  doubt  if 
they  would  wish  for  the  Elgin  Marbles  themselves ; 
the  curse  of  Minerva  should  have  lighted  upon  Lord 
Elgin ;  they  could  not  restore  them,  they  could  only 
put  them  into  a  Museum — but  they  ought  to  have 
the  Caryatid.  These  figures  of  women  bearing  burdens 
were  types  of  the  women  who  sneaked  and  let  the 
Persians  in. 

The  meeting  of  Jocasta  and  Oedipus  is  one  of  the  most 
powerful,  vigorous  things  in  any  literature.  In  Theo- 
critus, Tiresias  is  a  sort  of  dear  old  country  clergyman. 
Jocasta  hanged  herself:  it  was  etiquette  for  ladies  to 
do  so. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  COKV       .'U9 

Honour  was  understood  in  the  days  of  Cavaliers  and 
Koundheads. 

'  I  could  not  love  tliee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honour  more  ! ' 

What    Lovelace   sang  of,   Spencer,   Lord  Sunderland, 

did;^ 

[After  this  he  led  us,  by  what  path  I  forget,  to  charity, 
and  its  administration. — Ed,] 

..."  To  think  we  should  have  come  to  this — that  a 
Sister,  writing  to  the  papers,  complains  of  '  the  loveless 
charity '  of  workhouses  !  That  should  be  a  contradiction 
in  terms.  It  was  a  pretty  letter — but  there  may  be  a 
seamy  side.  I  saw  a  workhouse  at  Colchester,  where 
every  one  seemed  to  be  perfectly  happy.  The  only  things 
they  wanted  were  soft  woollen  balls  for  the  children  :  I 
sent  tiiem  those.  But  they  were  the  roc''s  egg — there 
was  nothing  else  left  to  wish  for.  .  .  . 

Kopo';,  fuhiess  of  bread,  brings  on  v^pt,<;,  insolence, 
which  brings  on  drrj,  infatuation,  or  ruin.  All  three 
degrees  were  summed  up  in  Napoleon.  It  was  his  i//3/3t? 
which  broke  the  heart  of  Louisa  of  Prussia,  and  made 
him  shoot  the  bookseller.  Campbell,  at  a  great  dinner, 
gave  out  the  toast  Napoleon  to  his  literary  brothers. 
Great  satisfaction.  '  Gentlemen,  he  was  our  best  friend, 
he  shot  a  publisher.''  Loud  applause.  The  Russian 
campaign  was  aTrj.  .  .   . 

It  is  one  of  the  most  curious  things  in  language  that 
our  Bravo !  should  come  direct  from  jSpa^eiov,  a  prize  in 
the  games ;  the  Avord  is  found  in  the  New  Testament. 
Another  curious  thing  :  Franz  Thimm,  the  bookseller, 
derives  his  name,  not  from  the  German  (where  th  is  rare) 
but  from  the  Greek  0v/m6^  which,  he  says,  means  power. 


320  NOTES  OF  THE 

Putting  one  thing  and  another  together,  I  think  it 
likely  that  I  know  as  much  Greek  as  Franz  Thimm,  but 
I  didn''t  dispute  the  point  with  him.  He  says  tiie  word 
is  on  Greek  coins,  which  have  been  found  along  the  Baltic 
and  are  now  in  the  British  Museum  ;  the  Greeks  went 
up  there  for  amber.  He  has  a  contempt  for  French 
and  English,  which  is  edifying.  .  .   . 

The  beginning  of  the  State  is  the  family.  Insurrection 
is  justified  when  the  State  begins  to  trample  on  it,  so  I 
side  with  Antigone.  As  a  young  man,  I  used  to  side 
with  her  altogether ;  now  I  see  there 's  something  to  be 
said  for  Kreon.  I  once  suggested  as  a  motto  Hominum 
opus  pulchen'hnum  civ'itas — l^dWicrrov  iariv  epyov  av- 
dpcoTTcov  TToXt?.  I  was  flattered  by  Herbert  Paul,  who 
said — '  I  always  thought  that  was  Cicero.''  .  .  . 

AVhat  an  awful  state  of  things  in  Matabeleland,  South 
Africa  !  There  the  tyrant  sits  at  home,  making  rain  and 
working  magic.  When  he  goes  out  to  receive  his  people, 
if  he  sees  any  one  whom  he  suspects  of  witchcraft,  he  hurls 
his  asseghai  at  him,  and  the  others  just  take  up  the 
body  and  bury  it.  He  has  a  sort  of  Janissary  guard 
called  Impis,  recruited  from  the  children  of  hostile  tribes, 
when  he  has  killed  their  fathers  and  taken  captive  their 
mothers.     I  hope  we  shall  punch  his  head  some  day. 

In  the  chorus  on  Man,  Sophocles  inverts  the  order, 
and  the  hunter  comes  before  the  agriculturist.  No 
matter !  He  was  not  bound  to  give  a  history  of  the 
human  race.  There  is  an  excellent  sketch  of  such  a 
history  in  Scott's  Tales  of  a  Grandfather,  written  for  the 
cripple  boy,  poor  little  Lockhart,  who  never  lived  to 
profit  by  it.  It  is  taken  from  Adam  Smith,  who  is 
seldom  read  now.  Curious  that  one  should  owe  to  Scott 
one's  first  glimpse  into  these  things  !     He  had  that  rare 


TABLE  TAIJv  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       fiSl 

gift  of  explaining-  his  own  knowledge  to  others.  Thou- 
sands of  people  have  knowledge,  hut  cannot  communicate 
it.  I  was  delighted — so  was  Herbert  Paul — with  a  quota- 
tion at  the  end  of  a  light  article  on  Novels,  in  Tlic 
Century  :  '  Ulysses  is  gone  away,  and  he  will  never  come 
back  again.'  Scott  was  just  like  the  Wanderer  whose 
wonderful  stories  kept  the  people  of  Ithaca  sitting  up  all 
night. 

It  is  difficult  to  give  the  whole  force  of  man  in  his 
manhood  and  valour.  .   .  . 

Honey,  wine,  and  milk  formed  the  triple  libation. 
Electra  cut  off  her  hair  as  well.  Some  years  ago  it  was 
discovered  that  there  was  actually  a  pipe  from  the  house 
into  the  grave,  and  that  offerings  were  poured  down  it. 

Their  great  idea  was  to  keep  up  the  sacrifices.  Of 
course,  Sophocles  and  Euripides  took  cognisance  of  this, 
as  Matthew  Arnold  takes  cognisance  of  the  Church  of 
England.  It  was  part  of  the  normal  state  of  things  ;  but 
Euripides,  at  any  rate,  did  not  believe  in  it.  Aristo- 
phanes attacked  him  for  undermining  faith.  The  three 
libations  are  still  customary. 

We  hear  of  bowls  headed  or  crowned  with  wine  ;  but 
I  \w  afraid  the  Greeks  were  not  acquainted  with  anything 
so  good  as  champagne  or  pale  ale. 

Horace,  when  he's  going  out  for  a  lark,  says,  'Lm 
going  to  revel  like  the  Edonians.''  They  were  the  first 
to  enjoy  the  grape.     They  liked  getting  drunk. 

Stringed  instruments  were  holy,  wind  instruments 
rowdy. 

The  Greeks  got  their  food  from  Thrace.  Thev  couldn't 
live  without  it,  any  more  than  we  could  live  without 
America.  Agricultural  countries  are  seldom  or  never 
extirpated.     The  Greeks  pounced  on  certain  spots  (By- 


322  NOTES  OF  THE 

zantium,  for  instance)  and  occupied  them,  just  as  we 
occupy  Sierra  Leone ;  the  Genoese  went  all  over  those 
regions  afterwards.  It  would  be  a  great  country,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  stupid  Turks.  Turks  had  not  been 
heard  of  in  the  days  of  Alfred.  They  are  Mongols.  We 
know  them  first  in  Turkestan.  They  dared  not  cross  the 
Hellespont ;  they  were  kept  back  like  witches,  hundreds 
of  years,  by  the  running  water.  They  didn't  take  Con- 
stantinople till  after  the  founding  of  Eton.  .  .   . 

It  is  assumed  that,  if  the  body  remain  unburied,  the 
dogs  will  eat  it.  Very  little  about  tame  dogs  in  Greek 
— nothing  in  the  Bible.  The  dogs  in  Constantinople 
ate  a  sailor  who  fell  down  drunk  in  the  streets  one  night. 
Everybody  is  obliged  by  law  to  take  a  lantern  to  protect 
himself  against  them. 

Traitormis  gams.  Money-making  is  the  most  innocent 
of  occupations.  Most  unfairly,  KepSo<;,  gain,  the  most 
creditable  thing  in  the  world,  comes  to  mean  in  the 
Tplured  gahifid  p7-ocesses,  and  hence  cheating'.  .  .  . 

They  say  Plato  spent  a  long  time  over  the  first  ten 
words  of  The  Republic. 

I,  523,  ovTOi  avve-y^Oeiv^  dX\a  av/j,(j)iXe2i'  €(j)vv.  Myers 
translates  it, 

'  Love,  and  not  liatred,  I  was  born  to  share.' 

I  never  could  do  it  so  well  as  that. 

II.  354,  5,  Kal  (f)66<y/ia  koI  avefxoev  (^povrjixa  koX  darv- 
vofiov;  6pyd<i.  Uttered  sounds — flakes  of  thought — '  strains 
that  sway  the  town,'  I  rendered  it  in  my  translation. 
It  is  a  crescendo:,  utterance — soaring  thought — power 
of  expression  for  others.  Tennyson  would  be  the  very 
man  to  put  it  into  victorious  English.  Tempered  strains ; 
I  delight  in  the  word  temper.     It  is  a  great  blessing  to 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       323 

the  British,  that  healthy  pow tr  of  heino-  aiij;rv  in  season. 
Goschen  has  it.     Few  Frenchmen  have. 

I  am  not  an  Englishman  before  the  days  of  Eliza- 
beth. I'm  a  Frenchman  or  a  Scot.  I  don't  care  about 
the  battle  of  Agincourt  except  in  Shakespeare.  The 
making  of  Shakespeare's  mind  was  like  the  making  of 
the  world.  .   .  . 

Hallam  says  tiiere  was  no  interesting  literature  between 
Plutarch  and  Heloise.  .  .  . 

Enter  Antigone.  Here  is  the  very  girl — hkr  ive  cmighi. 
Thafs  touching.  How  terrible  is  the  pathos  of  Esme- 
ralda in  Notre  Dame  de  Paris !  I  cannot  read  it  in  some 
moods.  If  they  go  on  much  further,  we  shall  tear  our- 
selves to  bits  with  grief.  I  can't  bear  to  read  about 
Humphrey  in  Mlmnderstood.  .  .  . 

[Here  the  bird  in  the  window  .sang  so  loud  tliat  he 
had  to  be  taken  down.  Mr.  Cory  could  not  sec  well, 
frightened  him  rather,  and  was  full  of  pity  for  him,  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  grammar.  'Poor  little  fellow — but 
did  you  ever  see  a  Future  Optative  before  .^']  .   .  . 


June  8. 

[We  did  not  get  through  as  much  as  usual,  because 
we  went  for  an  hour  and  a  half's  walk  instead.  Saw  the 
Pond — the  W^est  Heath — Amy  Laud  (so  called  from  an 
affectionate  descent  of  one  of  Andrew's  lady  schoolfellows 

upon  him),  Alice   Heath  (after  pretty   Alice   P ) — 

Hawthornden,  in  honour  of  the  poets — W^alter's  Lawn — 
Constable's  tree — W^ild  Wood  (where  Chatham  was  con- 
fined)— Spaniard's  Road — Jack  Straw's  Castle,  abode  of  a 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson,  socialists,  pantisocratists,  who  lived 
without  any  servants — the  part   where  Richardson  lived 


324  NOTES  OF  THE 

— Keats'"  Walk  (he  fought  a  butcher  boy  and  conquei-ed 
him) — houses  of  people  who  made  their  money  by  soap, 
blue,  stationery — a  Church  (Evangelical).  'The  Gospel, 
as  they  understand  it,  forbids  them  to  have  good  music, 
so  we  go  elsewhere.  They  've  built  a  good  place  for 
entertainments,  which  shows  that  there  is  still  public 
spirit  left.'  •   •   .] 

At  one  point  there  was  talk  of  invasion. 

Here  I  flood  the  Russians  at  Harper's  Ferry.  That 's 
a  secret  that  has  been  told  me.  The  people  at  the  Staff 
College  know  it.  Here,  I  tell  the  natives  of  Hampstead, 
we  must  make  a  last  stand. 

[We  spoke  about  his  life  in  College  at  Eton.  '  No  meat 
— mutton,  at  least — for  three  months.  We  used  to  fire 
batteries.  I  was  sent  to  get  ammunition,  being  looked 
upon  as  the  steady  man  who  had  cash  ;  I  could  not  have 
been  of  much  use  in  any  other  way.  ^Ve  killed  a  frog 
once.' 

He  laughed  very  much,  when  he  found  that  M liad 

stolen  a  bit  of  broom,  in  spite  of  all  his  warnings  about 
the  penalty  of  forty  shillings  ;  but  said  he  wouldn't  tell. 
Only  just  caught  our  train.  I  had  no  tea,  because  he 
was  talking  about  heraldic  lilies,  and  foi'got  to  pour  it 
out  till  too  late.  .  .  .  The  American  War  came  on  at 
tea-time.] 

"  We  behaved  as  badly  as  possible — rejoiced  in  the 
dissension — helped  the  South  whenever  we  could.  One 
of  my  pupils  remonstrated  with  me  after  I  had  paid  my 
subscription  to  the  Society  for  the  Emancipation  of 
Slaves — said  it  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had 
felt  ashamed  of  me.  At  first  the  South  had  it  all  her 
own  way.  Then,  when  I  was  travelling  in  Scotland,  a 
man  came  up  to  me  and  said,  '  Vicksburg  is  taken.     I'm 


TABLK  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       3^5 

so  glad.'  ^Vc  were  as  pleased  to  see  eaeli  other  as  two 
Englishmen  meeting  in  a  strange  country.  Grant  and 
Lee  came  together  when  it  was  all  over — Lee  beautifully 
got  up — Grant  poor  and  shabby ;  but  instead  of  going 
at  once  to  business,  they  sat  down  and  began  talking 
about  the  old  days  when  they  had  both  served  together 
in  Mexico. 

It  was  one  of  Gladstone's  good  deeds,  that  he  wiped 
t)iit  the  memory  of  our  wickedness  by  settling  the  Ala- 
bama Question,  and  paying  the  three  millions.  He 
examined  me  for  the  Newcastle ;  ])eautiful  eye — sweet 
voice — modest  manner — asked  me  what  .sacrdfero  meant 
— seemed  pleased  when  I  answered  right.  Yet,  even  a 
few  years  later,  he  began  to  show  signs  of  the  cloven 
hoof.  I  was  in  the  House  one  night  when  his  young 
Secretary,  Stafford  Northcote,  made  a  cold,  timid,  care- 
ful speech  on  Education.  It  was  the  first  speech  of  his 
that  made  any  mark.  ...  It  would  have  been  kind  in 
Gladstone,  w^ho  spoke  directly  afterwards,  to  take  some 
little  notice  of  it ;  but  he  never  made  the  slightest 
allusion.  I  heard  that  Stafford  Nortlicote  was  dee])ly 
disappointed. 

I  have  parted  with  every  book  I  ever  had  from  Glad- 
stone. One  I  sold  to  go  down  to  Devonshire  to  vote 
against  him.  The  bookseller  said  he  had  given  too  much 
— he  couldn't  get  as  much  as  thirty  shillings  for  it  again 
— but  when  I  told  him  what  use  I  had  put  the  money  to, 
he  said  it  was  all  right  and  he  didn't  mind. 

Jime  15. 
[The  conversation  turned   on   a  poem  of  Swinburne's 
and  an  article  on  Newnham  in  The  Nineteenth  Century.'] 
"  I've  read  Swinburne's  Jubilee  Ode  three  times.     Too 


326  NOTES  OF  THE 

long — but  the  passage  about  the  seals  beautiful.  In  the 
chorus  on  the  power  of  Love 

vLKa  S'  ivap<y}}<i  ^\€(f)dpcov  ifi€po<;  evXeKTpov 
vvfKpa^;,  Twv  fieyaXwv  irdpehpo^  iv  dp-)(al'i 
0ea-/xa)V'  d^a-)(0'i  'yap  epbiral^eL  deo^  'Ac^poStVa. 
vvv  K  yBt}  'yo)  KavTO<;  deafiMV 
e^o)  (j)epo/jiae,  raS'  opwi'  .  .   . 

it' s  very  interesting  that  Sophocles  should  pass  away 
from  the  luxury  of  a  bit  of  Swinburne  to  that  solid 
analogy. 

'  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet,  silent  thought ""  shows 
that  Shakespeare  was  brought  up  as  a  lawyer — but  then 
it 's  a  stroke  of  genius."" 

June  29. 

[This  was  just  after  the  Jubilee.  On  the  day  Mr. 
Cory  had  stayed  at  home  aiid  read  Beanchamp^'  Career. 
—Ed.] 

"  George  Meredith  is  the  greatest  genius  we  have,  next 
to  Tennyson. 

[He  meant  to  escort  Andrew  to  the  Naval  Review.  .  .  . 
He  wrote  us  out  a  long  list  of  the  lives  of  different  Naval 
commanders,  and  searched  the  house  for  ever  so  long  for 
a  copy  of  Peter  Simple  for  me  to  take  home  and  read.] 

"  Your  education  has  been  neglected.  You  ought  to 
have  read  it  long  ago.     I  lived  on  Parry  as  a  boy." 

[M went  liome  with  The  Life  of  Commodore  Good- 
enough. 

Odd  tasks  were  recommended  from  time  to  time.] 

"  If  you  wish  for  celebrity,  you  had  better  re-edit  the 
arpco/xaTeU  of  Clement  of  Alexandria." 

[Another  day  it  was  the  Life  of  Ulrich  von  Hutten.] 

"  If  I  were  a  girl,  I  wouldn't  marry  any  one  who  was  not 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       mi 

a  volunteer — unless  he  were  prevented  by  shortness  of 
sight,  or  something  of  that  kind.  It's  the  only  Ihini; 
that  saves  us  from  conscription." 


November  17  1887—1888 

I'HILOCTKTKS 

The  Autliorised  Version  goes  on  translating  <^dp^foi\,  till 
it  becomes  perfectly  nauseous.  In  the  case  of  the  Epistle 
to  the  Romans,  it  makes  the  argument  hopelessly  confus- 
ing.    I  recommend  total  abstinence. 

[7ap,  for^  was  indeed  as  a  red  rag  to  a  bull,  when  we 
were  having  our  lesson.  So  was  aXX«,  Imt ;  IChXa,  was 
not  hut — it  was  Noi  it  was  Do'. — it  was  a  gesture 
— it  was  a  shake  of  the  head.^  Kai  was  So.  KaXcof 
\iy€t<;  was  Ver^  good !  parfaitcment  in  '  waiter  and 
chambermaid  French."'  ] 

..."  The  Imperfect  gives  itself  no  airs,  but  humbly 
follows  the  Present,  For  the  root,  look  to  the  second  or 
Strong  Aorist.  Tiiere's  a  wonderful  bit  of  cursing  with 
an  Optative  in  AjcLv.  There  was  an  old  scholar,  George 
Kennedy.  A  friend  Faber,  a  very  poetical  man,  who 
afterwards  turned  R.C.,  came  into  the  room  once,  and,  to 
his  surprise  and  joy,  found  him  reading  the  New  Testa- 
ment, which  was  unusual.  But  all  the  old  fellow  said 
was,  '  Rum  fellow,  Luke  !  uses  av  with  the  Future 
Optative  ! ' 

[Here  a  verbal  disquisition  brought  him  to  the 
Parable  of  the  Unjust  Steward. — Ed.] 

"  The  story  is  ironical.  I  cannot  understand  it  other- 
wise. The  unjust  steward  had  feathered  his  nest,  and 
^  A  Greek  could  do  nothing  williout  gesticulation. 


328  NOTES  OF  THE 

went  to  live  comfortably  with  the  farmers.  It\s  the 
lowest  form  of  Christianity.  .  .  . 

All  Presents  have  an  inceptive  power.  /  teach  you 
means  /  try  to  teach  you.  '  The  half  of  my  goods  I  give 
to  the  poor  ■■ — I  give  means  /  "will  give.  That  "'s  the  most 
curious  discovery  I  ever  made. 

...  In  some  parts  of  England  loherehy  is  used  for 
xchereaa. 

'  I  know  nothing  by  myself  is  against  myself.'' 

.  .  .  One  is  tempted  to  use  the  Psalms  to  bring  out  the 
strength  of  the  Greek  chorus.  I  wish  I  knew  the 
Penitential  Psalms  by  heart.  I  shouldn't  be  at  a  loss  for 
language.  .   .  . 

The  Homeric  alBeta-d'  aWi'jXov^;  is  the  very  principle  of 
military  cohesion. 

I  used  to  think  that  Philoctetes,  clearing  away  the 
weeds  before  the  shrine,  might  be  an  allegory — that  he 
was  a  reformer — but  I  have  quite  given  that  up. 
Neoptolemus  leaves  us  in  doubt  as  to  his  crime,  and  I 
believe  Sophocles  thought  it  more  artistic.  Some  one 
told  the  head  of  your  family  there  was  no  moral  in  The 
Ancient  Mariner,  and  he  said  there  was  too  much :  it 
should  have  been  like  one  of  The  Arabian  Nights. 
Great  things  do  happen  from  hidden  causes.  Virgil  tells 
of  people  who  came  from  a  town  founded  by  Philoctetes.'"' 

[I  said  I  did  not  like  the  tone  of  Neoptolemus,  when 
he  said  that  '  men  must  bear  the  lot  given  them  by  the 
gods,'  and  it  was  '  not  right  that  anybody  should  forgive 
or  pity  those  who,  like  Philoctetes,  had  voluntarily 
incurred  misfortune.'] 

I  think  Sophocles  means  you  to  feel,  at  this  point,  that 
Neoptolemus  is  becoming  an  authority  :  he  shows  the 
development  of  the  character.     I  must  say  I  like  books 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY      329 

which  set  young  men  above  old.  They  are  so  much 
better.  Goodness  begins  to  decHne  after  25 — cleverness 
after  30 ;  at  40  oi-  50  the  clouds  of  vanity  gather.  It 
came  to  me  while  I  was  reading — I  suggest  it  with 
dittidcnce — that  Neoptolemus  is  like  Bedivere. 

Ther^  ?s  is  a  mixture  of  the  snob,  the  bore,  and  the 
cad.  Llysses  was  more  sure  than  the  other  man, 
Diomed,  that  he  would  get  the  bow  of  Philoctetes. 
They  are  hke  Paul  and  Barnabas ;  one  was  the  speaker, 
one  the  active  man.  I  don't  suppose  Barnabas  talked 
much — he  looked  majestic. 

1.  1420,  dddvajov  dpeTi-jv  ea-)(ov,  6i<i  irdpeaO^  opiiv. 

'  /  rcon  hnmojial  virtue^  r/.y  ijon  may  sec,  says  Hercules, 
much  finer  than  glory.  It  makes  one  think  he  was 
transfigured.  His  poor  body  had  been  spoilt  when  he 
entered  Heaven.  Hebe  came  with  the  Ann-ita  cup  of 
immortality. 

1.  503,  iraOetv  jjukv  ev,  iradelp  Sis  Odrepa. 

Odrepa,  the  other  things,  is  a  euphemism  for  KUKd, 
evil  things — as  my  friend  Herbert  said,  when  he  wrote 
home,  a  little  before  his  death,  '  If  you  don't  send  the 
money,  they  will  do  the  other  thing,''  meaning  of  course 
that  the  brigands,  who  had  taken  him  prisoner,  would 
kill  him.  There  were  three  friends.  The  fourth  was  a 
good  fellow  too  —  a  foreigner,  I  think.  When  the 
brigands  settled  to  let  one  of  them  go,  to  arrange  about 
ransom,  knowing  of  course  that  he  would  never  come 
back  again,  the  lot  fell  to  Vyner;  but  he  made  Lord 
Muncaster  go  in  his  place,  because  he  was  a  married 
man.  He  died  in  his  stead.  They  have  a  memorial  of 
him  at  Oxford.  '  To  the  dear  memory  of  Reginald 
Vyner,'  it  begins.  No  man  was  more  devoted  to  me 
than  Herbert. 


330  NOTES  OF  THE 

[Of  the  difficult  passage  836 — 838  every  one  '  fiad  a 
dream,  had  an  interpretation,"'  and  each  of  us  was  very 
much  pleased  with  lier  own.  Mr.  Cory  heard  us  out, 
and  then  said  quietly, 'I  hope  you  Ve  all  contented.  I 
give  it  up.  .   .   / 

We  talked  about  words  such  as  ixoXwv  put  in  only 
to  fill  up  the  line.  I  said  there  was  a  good  deal  of  that 
sort  of  thing  in  Tennyson's  Harold.^ 

"There  may  be.  I  should  be  very  proud,  if  I  had 
written  Harold.  There  ""s  a  great  deal  too  much  of  it  in 
Shakespeare ;  he  says  everything.  Lc  secret  d^emmyei\ 
c'est  tout  dire.  Sophocles  beats  him  in  self-restraint ; 
thafs  his  elpoovela.  But  Shakespeare  wrote  for  the 
stage,  and  you  have  to  sacrifice  a  good  deal  to  explain 
everything  to  an  audience.  I  approve  of  Henrij  IV. — 
not  of  Lear.  Lear's  such  a  fool  in  the  beginning,  I 
can't  take  any  interest  in  him.  I  delight  in  the  audience 
at  a  French  play  in  London.  De  Musset's  Caprice  and 
his  Caprices  de  Mai-iannc  are  wonderful ;  Herbert  Paul 
agrees  with  me.  The  fellow  who  acted  Fritz  in  La 
Grande  Duchesse  made  me  cry.  I  suppose  I  was  the 
only  person  in  the  house  who  did." 

His  last  words  to  M were  these : 

['  Tell  your  father  my  English  is  getting  better  since 
I  gave  up  associating  only  with  the  brutal  sex,  and  took 
to  ladies.'] 

[After  a  later  lesson. — Ed.]  .   .  . 

[He  had  been  unhappy  about  politics.J 

Ichabod  is  written  on  my  front.  If  they  carry  Home 
Rule,  I  shall  go  and  live  at  Zurich."  .  .  . 

[Sometimes  we  discussed  the  novel  of  the  day.] 

"  Plato  should  have  written  novels  like  George  Eliot's. 
I  am   delighted  with   Beggars  All.     I  think  it   better. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  VVILLLAM  COin        :}31 

for  a  Hist  work,  than  the  Saiu;s  uf  Ckr'ual  Life.  The 
writer  is  not  an  English  girl ;  I  found  that  out  for 
myself. 

[In  a  Ht  of  enthusiasm  for  Tolstoy,  we  presented 
Mr.  Cory  with  La  Guerre  et  la  Paix,  but  he  was  not 
enthusiastic — except  about  the  story  of  the  peasant  and 
his  little  dog.     Andre,  he  said,  is  a  stately  person.] 

..."  I  am  myself  a  Dumasser  of  the  first  class.  Have 
you  ever  read  Ascanio  ?  I  propose  to  found  a  Dumas 
Society  for  printing  thirty  of  his  best  works  properly, 
without  pages  left  out  and  wrong  spelling.  I  cannot 
read  L.es  deux  Diane.  Now^  and  then  he  is  horribly 
bloodthirsty;  there's  one  unforgivable  passage.  I  can- 
not understand  Stevenson's  preference  for  Ri-agehmne. 
If  ever  we  meet,  I  should  like  to  have  it  out  with  him. 
Poor  dear  fellow  !  he  knows  no  Greek.  How  I  should 
like  to  teach  him  ! — I  recommend  the  Henry  iv.  series. 
Henry  iv.  is  like  David — plenty  of  faults,  but  you  can't 
help  loving  them.  You  see  that  every  one  that  came 
near  them  did.     Dumas'"  Memohs  are  wonderful  stuff'." 

'  I  should  like  to  read  them." 

["There's  no  reason  you  should."'] 

[Some  one  spoke  of  the  glorious  sunsets  there  were 
ci  few  years  ago.] 

Thirty-seven  thousand  people  destroyed  !  Rather  n 
high  price  to  pay  for  a  firework.  It's  a  nightmare  to 
think  that  some  day  the  earth  will  be  too  full  for  the 
number  of  people  on  it.  .   .   . 

The  first  poets  I  cared  about  were  Campbell  {not 
Scott) — Byron — Euripides." 

[It  grieved  us  that  he  cared  not  at  all  about  Browning, 
though — without  knowing  the  author — he  had  copied 
into  his  manuscript  book — 


332  NOTES  OF  THE 

'  Oil,  the  little  more,  aud  how  much  it  i.«, 
And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away  I ' ' 

For  Swinburne's  Bothiocll  he  professed  great  admira- 
tion.] 

"  The  King\s  Tragedy,  The  White  Ship,  are  natural 
and  wholesome.  My  audacious  friend,  Furnivall,  took 
mc  to  see  him  in  ''59.  Rossetti  was  in  his  prime 
then.  .  .  .  Thafs  a  very  sad  Sonnet  in  Christina's  last 
volume;  I  suppose  she  alludes  to  him.'" 

[He  was  very  much  astonished  to  find  that  I  had  never 
read  the  Vita  Nuova.  Even  more  astonished  was  Mr. 
('ory  to  find  tliat  I  had  never  read  Bacon''s  Wisdom  qf 
the  Ancients.  But  this  was  nothing  to  liis  bewilderment 
when  T  told  him  that  I  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
the  battle  of  Fontenoy.  He  could  not  speak  for  some 
minutes  ;  then  he  said  : 

'  It  was  a  great  shock  to  me — your  saying  that.'J 

Nov.  28,  1889. 

It  was  freezing  cold  at  Hampstead — a  wind  that 
pierced  like  daggers ;  but,  though  it  took  my  breath 
away,  so  that  once  or  twice  I  could  hardly  get  on  up  the 
hill,  the  pain  in  my  hands  called  up  such  a  keen,  live 
spirit  of  resistance,  that  I  almost  enjoyed  it.  Mr.  Cory 
made  me  sit  in  an  arm-chair  on  one  side  of  the  fire — he  sat 
in  an  arm-chair  on  the  other — and  we  read  The  Cyclops 
in  Love.  The  lilies  and  poppies  were  all  the  lovelier 
for  the  snow  on  the  ground.     We  talked  about  Evelina. 

'  Rather  milk  and  water  morality,  isn''t  it  ?  My  grand- 
mother liked  it — but  there  I  think  my  grandmother  was 
hopelessly  mistaken.     She  was  young  when  it  came  out; 

'  This  particular  verse  seems  to  be  a  favourite  with  the  classically 
minded.     I  have  heard  Tennyson  quote  it — and  Mr.  Bridges. 


TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       333 

that  makes  all  the  difference.  ...  I  U)ve  Cowpei'  .  .  . 
I  was  brought  up  on  him  ;  my  mother  used  to  make  me 
learn  him  by  heart  .  .  .  My  mother  and  my  grand- 
mother loved  him,  I  never  heard  of  Milton.  I  read  all 
the  Edinburghs  and  Quarterlies  through.' 

Dec.  5. 

I  went  into  the  sitting-room  to  warm  myself  at  once 
this  morning.   .   .   . 

He  told  me  curious  things  about  the  books  they  liked 
in  the  Middle  Ages. 

'They  liked  their  history  and  theology  at  second  hand 
— in  a  portable  shape — in  sandwiches,  so  to  speak. 
They  didn't  read  Livy;  they  read  Valerius  Maximus. 
Hradshaw  told  me,  he  had  never  seen  the  catalogue  of 
a  Mediaeval  Librarv  that  had  not  got  N'alerius  Maximus 
in  it.' 


I  translated  eap  6po)cra  Nvxei'a,  Nucheia  looking-  at  the 
Spring'. 

'  No!  it  means  w'lth  the  spring  hi  her  ei/es.  It 's  the  most 
beautiful  thing  you  can  say  of  any  one.  I  very  seldom 
see  eyes.  I  did  last  night.  I  saw  Spring  in  the  eyes  of 
my  wife — the  eldest  of  my  four  daughters,  as  she  is  gener- 
ally supposed  to  be  !  ^      We  went  to  a  penny  concert.' 

^f(lrch  14,  1890. 
I  had  not  gone  to   Hampstead  for  some  time,  and  on 
the  last  occasion  we  had  fought,  because  I  prefer  Shelley 
to  Keats. 

'  An  ounce  of  Coleridge  is  worth  a  pound  of  Shelley. 
Keats  haunts  one.' 

'  The  three  Miss  Grahams  were  there. 


384  NOTES  OF  THE 

'Shelley  haunts  me,'  I  said. 

'  What  haunts  you  ? ' 

I  mentioned  something  on  the  spur  of  the  moment — I 
forget  what. 

'  Oh,  the  short  things  ? ' 

'  No,'  I  said  boldly,  '  hits  of  Prometheus  haunt  me 
too — 

"  My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat" 

for  instance.' 

'The  Shelley  Society  have  asked  me  to  write  a  paper 
on  Shelley's  scholarship.  I  shall  expose  their  idol.  I  am 
like  Balaam  the  other  way  round ;  they  call  me  in  to 
bless,  and  I  shall  curse.  People  should  read  Johnson's 
lives  of  the  Poets ;  that 's  the  antidote  for  a  love  of 
Shelley.' 

When  I  went  back  yesterday,  he  told  me  tiiat  he  had 
finished  his  paper,  and  had  given  it  to  Mr.  Furnivall,  the 
night  before.  Mr.  Furnivall  said  it  was  more  sympathetic 
than  he  expected,  and  asked  leave  to  send  it  to  a  lady 
at  Meran  (as  I  understood)  who  edits  a  magazine  and 
is  always  asking  him  for  copy. 

*  She  doesn't  pay  of  course.  I  told  him,  if  he  wanted  it 
for  a  London  magazine,  I  should  have  to  dress  it  up  a 
little.  I  took  great  pains  with  it.  Shelley  was  not  a 
scholar  at  all.  He  was  a  schoolboy  broken  off.  He 
shows  it  by  his  choice  of  the  St/mpo.mn/i,  which  is  easy — 
for  Plato — and  then  he  makes  a  mistake  a  schoolboy 
would  not  have  made  about  the  meaning  of  irore.  He 
picks  up  things  here  and  there.  '  Weave  the  song '  was 
an  expression  he  got  from  the  use  of  vcpaivo).  Out  of 
deference  to  you  I  looked  out 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat. 


TAin^E  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY       335 

'  Do  you  remeinher  the  second  line  ? ' 

'No; 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat, 
AVhich,  like  a  sleeping  swav. 

'  I  can't  stand  a  thini;  like  that/ 

June  5. 

'Was  that  you  wiping  your  shoes?'  said  Mr.  Cory. 
'  Very  virtuous  of  you  !  I  thought  it  was  an  attack  on 
the  house.' 

He  laughed  merrily  when  he  found  that  I  had 
brought  him  a  Hermes,  .sent  by  Mrs.  Wayte,  and  a 
box  of  ginger. 

'  Hm  !  there's  some  intellect  in  that  face.  J^ooks  as 
if  he  were  going  to  beat  the  child.  Very  much  obliged 
for  the  ginger;  it  will  be  acceptable  when  Andrew 
comes  home.     My  mother  used  to  eat  ginger  in  church.' 

iiept.  17. 

The  Sage  sent  me  a  message:  'Tell  Miss  Coleridge 
that  I've  been  reading /)a7ti^,  and  that  I  think  he's  a 
cobbler  beside  Virgil.' 

I  felt  son-y  when  he  moved  from  Canon  Place  to  the 
little  house  in  Pilgrim  Lane.  The  drawing-room,  though 
very  pretty,  was  darker.  We  were  not  so  gay  as  we 
were  up  on  the  hill.  I  missed  the  familiar  pictures  on 
their  own  walls — the  little  maid  going  to  bathe  for  the 
first  time  and  hesitatnig,  half  frightened,  half  resolute, 
on  the  steps  of  the  machine — Iris — Mary  of  Orange  as 
a  child — Diana — the  water  colour  of  a  girl,  her  hat 
thrown  ofi',  sitting  pensively  before  an  organ. 

May  2C,  1892. 

A  post-card  came  ;  '  I  am  too  ill  for  "  The  Birds."  Uad 
Job.' 


336       TABLE  TALK  OF  WILLIAM  CORY 

Last  week  we  were  reading  with  him  as  usual,  and 
hurried  off'  to  catch  the  train.  I  wish  now  we  had 
missed  it.  He  promised  to  sliow  me  some  great  passage 
in  Thierry  (I  think  it  was).  I  thought  I  would  remind 
him  of  it  next  time. 

June  1. 

I  saw  him  for  the  last  time.  He  spoke  to  me  about 
his  own  people. 

'  My  father  was  ten  years  older  than  my  mother.  He 
let  her  fall  out  of  his  arms  when  she  was  a  baby.  Pick- 
ing her  up,  he  said,  '  Never  mind,  darling  !  I  '11  marry 
you  some  dav.""  And  he  kept  his  word,  returning  to  her 
after  ten  years  of  India.  In  the  meantime  she  had  been 
wooed  by  a  lover  who  used  to  ride  over  to  present  her 
with  the  quartos  of  Scott's  poems,  as  they  came  out.' 

He  was  deeply  interested  in  •  a  new  History  of  Persia, 
and  in  Cadwallader  Bates'  History  of  Northumberland, 
and  made  Mrs.  Cory  show  them  both  to  me.  His  face 
was  altered.     He  looked  ill. 

'  He  is  much  better  to-day,'  Mrs.  Cory  said,  when  I 
went  in. 

'  No,'  he  said  quickly,  '  I  don't  expect  to  be  much 
better.' 

He  died  at  1  a.m.  on  the  12th  June. 


MARY  COLERIDGE 

Thk  hour  had  conie ;  you  could  no  longer  stay, 
Swiftest  and  brightest  Spirit  of  our  day  ! 
Een  now  we  saw  and  touched  thee;  vanished  quite, 
A  cloud  received  thee,  hidden  from  our  sight. 

Here,  in  this  garden,  you  were  oft-times  seen. 
These  forest  paths,  and  in  these  meadows  green  ; 
You  loved  the  beauty  of  our  cheerful  Kent, 
Yet  the  grey  North  land  gave  your  soul  content. 
That  dim,  pathetic,  soft-illumined  sky. 
The  sun  vague-gleaming  through  uncertainty, 
No  tone  too  definite,  no  outhne  clear. 
All  symbolised  your  spirit-atmosphere  ; 
And  none,  like  you,  with  magical  command, 
Evoked  the  Genius  of  Northumberland, 
Save  one  keen  poet,  '  into  buoyant  order 
Reining  his  rhymes,'  along  the  northern  border. 

The  London  streets,  their  colour  and  their  throng. 

Did  to  the  mirror  of  your  mind  belong. 

And  there  you  learnt,  as  in  no  other  place, 

The  woes,  joys,  passions,  of  your  suffering  race, 

And  to  your  poorer  sisters  gave  a  part 

Of  your  wide  knowledge  and  your  generous  heart. 

Light  was  your  touch  upon  the  shadowy  earth  ; 
You  loved  it  well,  yet  knew  it  little  worth  ; 
Each  mood  vou  luved  that  changing  nature  brings, 
And  yet,  and  yet — you  loved  diviner  things. 
Y 


338  MARY  COLERIDGE 

IMany  there  be  who  may  not  live  again. 

Because  they  lose  their  souls  and  live  in  vain  ; 

But  those  earn  life  more  rich  than  that  of  men 

Who  their  one  talent  multiply  to  ten ; 

And,  if  the  Christian  teaching  we  receive, 

We  '11  you  in  fair  companionship  believe, 

Where  radiant  Angels,  strong,  and  clear,  and  free. 

As  their  fit  compeer  gladly  welcome  thee  ; 

Those  brighter  saints,  who,  by  the  finest  change. 

Transmuted  passion  to  a  nobler  range. 

In  whom,  on  earth,  ripened  the  heavenly  seed, 

Because,  contemplative,  they  loved  indeed. 

And,  above  all,  the  Mai-y,  who  adored 

That  wondrous  guest,  her  brother's  friend,  the  Lord ; 

Heart  near  akin  to  thine,  she  chose  to  give 

Her  very  life,  not  only  means  to  live. 

True  as  the  steel  that  to  the  magnet  flies. 
Tender  as  sunset  light  in  August  skies, 
Fine  as  the  edge  of  a  Damascus  blade. 
Strong  as  a  man,  and  gentle  as  a  maid, 
So  was  your  verse,  and,  Mary,  so  were  you. 
Farewell,  dear  Spirit,  tender,  strong,  and  true ! 
If,  in  a  lovelier  world,  we  meet  again. 
Joyful  will  be  the  awaking  out  of  pain. 

BERNAKU    HOLLAND. 


Primed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printeib  to  His  Ma 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


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